Fright Night (22 page)

B
y his own admission, Charley had experienced close to three thousand four hundred hours of cinematic horror and mayhem in his brief life. He had seen giant carnivorous rabbits, twelve-year-olds in the throes of demonic possession, dogs split open and spewing the tendrils of alien hosts, an endless parade of vampires, psychos and blood-sucking freaks. He had seen special effects that ranged from the insanely laughable to the mind-bendingly authentic.

He had seen nothing to prepare him for the sight of Jerry Dandrige diving headfirst toward him and
mutating
on the way: arms twisting and stretching into wings, incredibly huge, eight feet if they were an inch; legs stunting in mid-fall, shriveling into tiny hooked appendages; body bristling even as it shrank.

And his face . . .

. . . his face was the worst. It led the charge, mouth gaping and screeching, down and down.

Charley ducked at the last moment, and the bat-thing snatched at him, coming away with a bleeding divot of scalp. Charley screamed and clutched his head. The bat-thing arched high toward the vaulted ceiling, turned, swooped again . . .

. . . and ran straight into Peter Vincent, coming down the stairs. It bowled him over, attaching itself to his neck viciously, all teeth and tiny claws and furious beating wings.

They fell to the floor in a heap, Peter fighting the onslaught desperately, the creature tearing at him and trying to secure a killing hold. Charley raced forward, grabbing it roughly by the wings . . .

. . . and the bat-thing lashed out, jaws snapping, and fastened itself to his hand, shaking it like a pitbull shakes a rat, the blood spurting hot and black. Charley fell back with a howl, and the bat-thing turned back to Peter Vincent, pausing only once to arc its head back . . .

. . . and
laugh,
an insane, impossible cackle that burst from its tiny lungs as the nightmare visage turned back on the prostrate form beneath it, eyes shiny and mad with blood-lust . . .

. . . utterly unaware of the soft, bright beams of morning sun that inched down the stairs . . .

. . . the killing sun . . .

Charley looked up in pain to find Peter on his last legs, unable to fight any longer. The bat-thing reared its head in triumph . . .

. . . and the first light of day hit it square in the head.

Its scream was a hideous, bleating thing. It pulled its head away, one side crisping under the prolonged exposure. It jerked away from Peter Vincent and careened down the hall toward the basement, knocking over furniture and knickknacks as it went. A thick, acrid plume of smoke trailed after it.

It smelled of dead things left too long in the sun.

Charley crawled over to Peter Vincent, who lay coughing in the warming sun. “My God, Peter, are you all right?” he asked. Peter nodded, bruised and scratched but miraculously unhurt.

They looked around, the sudden stillness entirely unnerving. Peter groaned. “Charley, help me up,” he said. “We don’t have much time.”

Wounded and disheveled, they made their way toward the cellar door. Not knowing that something else made its way downward through a darkened rear stairwell.

Something changed.

Something growing.

Something very very hungry.

TWENTY-EIGHT

T
hey descended the stairs to the basement with roughly the same enthusiasm Dante reserved for the Inferno. The darkness was complete, the only visibility provided by Peter’s flashlight. It cut swaths across the darkness, revealing a hodgepodge of musty furniture, all covered by heavy canvas dropcloths. Beyond them were what appeared to be four rather large windows covered with securely fastened blackout drapes.

And there were rats. The flashlight illuminated scuttling bodies darting in and out of the row of antiques, poking whiskered faces out of bookshelves and cubbyholes, indignant at the intrusion. Not a lot—no great hordes—but enough to preserve the aura of decay.

No coffin, though. After a dozen sweeps of the beam, Peter saw no sign of Dandrige. Or his coffin.

Charley stood beside him in the darkness, holding a kerchief to his scalp. The wound wasn’t deep, thank God, but it had bled, and thin rivulets dried and caked on his cheeks.

They glanced at each other, and without a word began ripping the dust covers from the furniture. They found several mirrors (evidently removed from pieces of furniture upstairs), a rather imposing chest of drawers, an armoire and several pieces worthy of Sotheby’s.

But no coffin.

Then Peter noticed the rats. Rats everywhere, but a concentration of them seemed to favor the armoire. He dropped down to the floor, training his flashlight underneath.

His eyes bulged wide in his head.

“Charley, help me move this thing!” They grabbed matter-of-factly and
heaved . . .

. . . and the rats poured out in a flood, beady-eyed and bloated. Charley and Peter just stared, silently mouthing
Jesus Christ
in unison.

It was an alcove, tiny and oppressive. The stone walls were cold and mildewed. Another window, recently bricked up, adorned one wall
(probably hadn’t had enough time to do the others,
Charley thought).

The rats were everywhere, hundreds of them, chittering and squawking at the intrusion. And two coffins: one ornate, hardwood, brass-bound; the other plain, little more than a large packing crate. Peter looked in the lesser, feeling the soil. There was something inside. Carefully he picked it up, shining his flashlight upon it. It was a jacket.

Amy’s jacket.

Charley moaned at the sight of it. He’d almost forgotten her in the madness of the last few minutes. He threw a concerned look at Peter, whispering her name.

As if on cue, the stairs creaked. Charley started back through the darkness, toward the door. Peter called out, hoping to stop him.

No such luck. In an instant, the shadows swallowed him up. Peter rushed over to the coffin, grabbing the lid with shaking hands.

Only to find it resist. The clasps released all right, but some internal mechanism was evidently in place. So, he did what any vampire hunter worth his salt would do in such circumstances.

He picked the lock.

Charley picked his way carefully through the darkness; afraid of what he’d find, more afraid of not finding it.

It:
the girl he loved, the once-and-future Mrs. Charles Brewster. He pressed on, his eyes slowly adjusting to the darkness. He couldn’t stand it: the pain, the loss, the destruction of his car, his friends, his love life . . . his
whole
life. It was too much. It was unbearable. It was . . .

It
was standing before him, calling his name.

“Charleeee . . .”

He recoiled instantly. Amy looked hurt. She brought her hands to her throat coquettishly. “Don’t be afraid, Charley,” she purred. “It’s only me. Amy . . .” Her voice trailed off.

She advanced slowly, with a husky sensuality he’d never dared dream of. Her eyes burned into him, red-rimmed and horrible, yet somehow . . . soft. Yes, soft and wanting.
She wants me.
The thought appeared in his mind of its own volition, a palpable thing.

Amy smiled knowingly, unbuttoning her blouse as she spoke. Charley stared unbelievingly. She was naked underneath. She ran her hands from her belly to her breasts, an inviting, languorous gesture. “What’s wrong, Charley? Don’t you
want
me anymore?”

He did. He felt himself slipping, wanting to slide, to slide fully into her . . . need. She had changed; she was ripe fruit, dangled in front of a starving man. She smelled of sweet, fresh orchids. Her breasts were full and heavy, responding to her kneading, nipples hard as thimbles. Her belly was firm and quivering, her mons . . .

Amy took his hand gently and put it there, undulating her hips, a preview of coming attractions. Charley groaned and fell into her arms, pressing into her.
Nothing matters anymore. Nothing but this, forever and ever and . . .

He opened his eyes to stare at his beloved. “Oh, Charley,” she breathed. “I love yoooooo . . .” His vision blurred, started to fade. But not before he glimpsed himself in a mirror.

Standing with his arms wrapped around nothing, dry-humping the thin air before him.

Reality poured back into him like a bucket of icy sea water. He pushed away from her, thrusting his crucifix forward. She hissed like cold oil on a hot plate, burying her face in her hands.

“It’s not
my
fault, Charley. You
promised
you wouldn’t let him get me. You
promised . . .”

She started to cry. Charley faltered, wracked with guilt. “Amy, I’m sorry,” he whispered, dropping his guard.

And Amy whirled, teeth flashing, whipping one delicately clawed hand around to knock the cross spinning into the darkness. Charley never knew what hit him.

She dropped the thin veneer, advancing on him slowly, like a hungry wolf advances on a cornered buck. Sure of itself.

Sure of the kill.

“I know,” she smiled. “But you’ll do.”

Peter Vincent heard the commotion, guessed what was happening. He prayed that Charley could hold out a few more minutes, until he got the coffin open. He glanced over at her coffin, a few feet away. In desperation, he leaned over and kicked it. It fell to the floor with a clatter, soil spilling everywhere.

A scream cut through the darkness, an animal shriek of fear and outrage.

Good,
he thought.

The lock clicked open. Peter threw back the lid, stake in hand.

Dandrige lay in his coffin, not breathing, not moving. The entire left side of his face was a mass of seared flesh, the hair burned away, the eyelid drooping.

Preview of coming attractions,
he thought, and brought the stake down hard . . .

. . . as the vampire’s arm lashed out, catching the old man by the throat, its one good eye blazing with raw, primal hatred. The stake missed its mark, plowing into the vampire’s shoulder as it sat up in the coffin, raising Peter several inches off the floor and
throwing
him . . .

Amy screamed like a cat in a burning cage, leaping at Charley. He fell back against one of the mirrors, smashing it to the floor, where it shattered into a million fragments. He landed hard and scrabbled backward like a crab, cutting himself over and over . . .

Peter Vincent landed in a choking heap upon the wreckage of Amy’s coffin. Dandrige rose up, the portrait of a dark god, wreaking vengeance on the desecrating infidels. He pulled the stake from his shoulder and flung it, the tip still smoking, across the room.

Peter backed against the wall, mind racing. Dandrige scowled horribly.

“I’ve
had
it with you,” the vampire spat. “You are dead meat, my friend.” He stood directly over Peter, leaning over to pick him up . . .

. . . as Amy crawled up to Charley, his blood from a dozen tiny lacerations more than she could bear. She licked her lips like a dog in an Alpo commercial, thin trails of saliva pouring out the corners of her mouth.

Charley backed into a pile of dropcloths and scrambled up over them, until he was flush against the wall. He spread his hands out in either direction, as if hoping to flatten out entirely. Amy grasped his ankles, making horrible smacking sounds.

And his left hand found something soft.

Something thick.

The blackout curtain.

Dandrige grasped Peter roughly by the lapels. Peter grabbed blindly for anything: a weapon, a prayer . . .

And found both.

Dandrige yanked him straight up off the floor, mouth gaping, drawing him close . . .

. . . and Peter Vincent, The Great Vampire Killer, pushed a fourteen-inch sliver of packing crate squarely into his chest.

Dandrige stopped in mid-snarl, his one eye opened wide in shock and agony. Peter twisted out of his grasp. Dimly, the actor could see what was happening on the other side of the room.

Charley kicked at Amy’s face, striking a glancing blow. She fell back, and Charley
pulled . . .

The curtain split open with a rending sound, sending a narrow beam of light slicing through the darkness.

Right into Jerry Dandrige’s back.

It hit the vampire like a freight train, slamming him against the stone wall and pinning him there, smoldering, a solid foot above the floor. He writhed like a slug under a magnifying glass, an endless keening wail issuing up from deep inside him.
“NOOOOOOO!!!”

A cry echoed raucously by Amy, who watched in horror, her eyes turning milky and blind with terror. Charley lurched over, reaching behind her to grab another curtain. He pulled with both hands, the entire drape coming away this time, flooding the room with light. Charley grabbed the curtain as it fell, throwing it over Amy protectively. She curled into a fetal position under it, her cries muffled by the heavy fabric.

The light hit the shattered fragments of glass, sending countless refractions firing in every direction, spidery beams of cleansing color and light.

“Got you, mother-
fucker!”
cried Charley, staring at Dandrige victoriously.