The Late Night Horror Show (2 page)

She was dead.

Unmistakably, irreversibly, undeniably, completely fucking dead.

After a long moment’s silence, a shrill, strangled sound issued from John’s throat. He staggered closer to the bed, the strangled sound growing louder and more distraught with each step. Everything became more crisply defined. He saw how pulped her cheekbones were. He saw the crookedness of her previously perfectly straight nose. He saw white fragments of teeth amidst the dark gore on the bed sheet.

“Ohhhhhhhhhhhh…”

John’s eyes rolled back in his head and his body pitched forward as he fell unconscious across his wife’s bloody corpse.

Chapter Two

Kira Matthews was in her usual midafternoon spot behind the counter at Mondo Mocha. She was leaning over the counter, her bare elbows propped on the scuffed and stained old wood of the countertop. The tip of a forefinger moved slowly over the screen of her iPad as she surfed over to another page of the horror festival’s rather dinky website. Kira was no web designer, but even to her untrained eye the site’s design seemed amateurish.
 

Stock graphics combined with a clumsy, nonintuitive interface to render navigation a supremely irritating experience. Any site with multiple pages needed an all-purpose menu allowing quick navigation back to any page within the site, but the geniuses who’d put this thing together hadn’t bothered. The only menu was on the main page, a very long column of links down the left-hand side of the page, which included links to pages with plot overviews, individual actor bios, director bios, and reviews. She’d surfed back to the main page somewhere in the neighborhood of six trillion and ten times. Just a rough estimate. If anything, that was lowballing it. The site triggered vague memories of early websites from the ’90s, when she’d been a kid. She couldn’t figure out whether the site’s primitive design was an intentionally cheesy homage to web design of a bygone era or if it looked so bad simply because the designers really were that inept.

She had read nearly every page within the site at this point, lingering longest on the pages devoted to
Blood Lust
, a vampire film. It looked every bit as cheesy as the rest of the festival’s roster of schlock, but she had a particular fondness for vamps. The fascination had its roots in a youthful exposure to the film version of
Interview with the Vampire
. Thus began an obsession that occupied much of her teenage years. She devoured everything related to bloodsuckers, both in film and literature, accumulating an impressive collection of books and DVDs that encompassed everything from all the classic works of the subgenre to all the cheesiest shitfests ever made and everything in between. Including the
Twilight
books, a thing she rarely confessed to these days.

Her exhaustive review of the horror festival’s site was a testament to how monumentally bored she was. Most of her friends were out of town. Some just for the weekend, but most had scattered to the four corners of civilization for the summer. Today was Sunday, the day before Memorial Day, and most of the Mid-South University student population had cleared out of town shortly after finals a couple weeks back. The little coffee shop was campus adjacent and was a popular place for laid-back studying and web surfing when classes were in session. Customer traffic would be light until the students began to return in mid-August. Right now, in fact, the shop was empty. The last paying customer of the afternoon had shuffled off almost a half hour earlier. The only other person in the shop at the moment was Miss Mildred, the owner. She was in the back doing some sort of half-assed inventory.

The bell above the door jangled as someone came into the coffee shop. Kira glanced up from her iPad and smiled when she saw Lashon Miller stroll up to the counter.

“Hey.”

“Hey.”

Lashon set a book on the counter and yawned as she stretched her arms over her head. Kira glanced at the book.
Wolves of the Calla
by Stephen King.

“Haven’t you read that already?”

“Yeah.”

“Don’t you have any new books to read?”

Lashon shrugged. “Bored. Nothing new appeals right now. So I’m rereading some shit I like. Hook me up with a large caramel latte, please.”

Kira set to work making the drink. “What are you doing tonight?”

Lashon flipped dark hair out of her face with a toss of her head and shifted her posture so that all her weight was balanced on one leg. She turned the little wire rack of folk CDs that sat on the counter. “Don’t know. The usual, I guess. Sit at home. Be fucking bored. Unless, like, I go on an epic fucking killing spree down at the square. Still haven’t ruled that out.”

“So…still haven’t patched things up with Greg?”

Lashon continued to slowly spin the wire rack. “No.”

The monotone reply worried Kira. Lashon and Greg Nelson had been a hot item for over a year. They had been mad for each other, the kind of couple given to frequent public displays of affection, the superinappropriate, borderline-foreplay kind that made people uncomfortable. About a month ago it had come to an abrupt end. Lashon had refused to talk about it and so it had become a subject of gossip and speculation among the others in their circle.

Kira finished the drink and set the brimming cup on the counter. Lashon picked up the cup and took a small sip, making a soft sound of satisfaction. “Mmm. I don’t have any money.”

“What?”

“I don’t have any money.”

Kira sighed. “For fuck’s sake, Lashon.”

Lashon took another sip of her drink and said nothing, but stared levelly at Kira.

Kira rolled her eyes. “Whatever, bitch. I’ll pay for it.”

“Thank you.”

Kira forced a smile.

Right. Like I had a choice. Jesus.

Kira had precious little money of her own, but what else could she have done? With the possible exceptions of Jason and Monroe, Lashon was the closest friend she had made since moving to Murfreesboro after high school two years ago. She couldn’t refuse her service or kick her out for nonpayment. Nor could she just let her have the drink on the house. Miss Mildred was funny about that kind of thing, and you could never tell when she was watching you on that black-and-white security monitor in the back. So the money was coming out of her pocket and that’s all there was to it.

Lashon was looking at the CDs again.

Kira fumed the more she thought about it.

Something had to be said.

“Look—”

Lashon sighed. “He hit me.”

“What?”

“Greg. He hit me.”

Kira’s expression softened. “Oh.” Then her face hardened again. “That fucking asshole.”

“Yeah.”

Kira stared at her friend and thought back over the last month. She couldn’t remember seeing any bruises on her face, but that didn’t mean anything. He might have hit her where it wouldn’t show. “I’m sorry.”

Lashon’s expression was strangely blank as she removed a CD by Ani DiFranco from the rack, flipped it over, and looked at the back. “Why? You didn’t hit me.”

Kira stared at her friend. There was something more than a little odd about her demeanor today. The drink thing was out of character. The timing of the abuse revelation was also questionable. It almost seemed as if it’d been meant to distract her. And, perhaps most disturbingly, she knew damn well Lashon Miller didn’t give the first shit about Ani DiFranco or anyone else among the selection of NPR-approved artists on display on the little spinning rack.

“Will you put that fucking CD back, please?”

Lashon looked at her again, her expression staying blank a moment longer. Then a corner of her mouth tilted upward in a cautious smile. “Okay.”

She returned the CD to the rack.

“Happy?”

“Yes. Look—”

“I’m sorry I’m mooching a drink off you, okay?”

Kira smiled and felt something inside her relax. “Okay.” Then she frowned. “But what’s this about Greg hitting you?”

Lashon took another sip of her drink, wincing as her lips pursed around the thin straw. She licked her lips after releasing the straw. “Okay. I sort of lied.”

Now we’re getting to it. About time.

Kira leaned against the counter. “So there was no physical abuse at all.”

“Didn’t say that. There was. I hit him.”

Kira gaped at her. “What? Are you fucking serious?”

“Yeah.”

Kira was reeling.

What…the…FUCK?

“Why? What did he do?”

“Nothing much.”

Kira didn’t know what to say. She just continued to stare at her friend in openmouthed astonishment.

Lashon’s expression now was somber, instead of carefully blank. “It was all my fault. It was around finals time. I was so stressed the fuck out. And he was just frustrating me, pissing me off no matter what he did or said. Finally I just snapped and hit him.”

“When you say you ‘hit’ him…”

Lashon shook her head. “I know what you’re thinking and I’m not talking about a slap or any fucking little love tap. I punched him. In the face. As hard as I could. I mean, I really let him have it.” Moisture brimmed in her eyes. She made no move to wipe it away. “And, shit, I did it more than once. He just took it. I wish he’d hit me back.”

Kira felt sick. “Jesus.”

“Yeah. I chipped one of his teeth on my engagement ring.” She held up her left hand and wiggled the bare fingers. “Which, by the way, I no longer have.” She laughed softly as a tear rolled down her face. “So, no, I haven’t patched things up with Greg. Or, rather, he hasn’t patched things up with me. And I don’t blame him. I don’t know how to explain it. I just had a…mental break, I guess.”

Kira couldn’t believe what she was hearing. It went against everything she’d ever assumed about her friend. She would never in a million years have guessed Lashon possessed the potential for that kind of violence. And yet, there was none of that sense of awkward falseness she’d exuded before. Her gut told her this wasn’t just more bullshit. It was the truth. Which was so fucked up on so many levels she couldn’t even begin to wrap her head around it. “I just…I guess I never suspected you had that kind of rage inside you.”

Lashon wiped tears away. “I’m just lucky he didn’t call the cops. Do you hate me now?”

Kira shook her head. “I…no. I’ll be honest, I don’t understand this. It disturbs me, but I care about you.”

Lashon smiled. “At least someone does. Are you…afraid of me?” She laughed too loudly then. “Hell, I know I’d be if someone unloaded a story like this on me.”

Just say it. What she needs to hear.

“No. I’m not afraid of you.”

Lashon looked grateful. “Oh good. I’m glad. That means a lot. You’re the only person I’ve told. It feels good to sort of…confess. Now if I could just stop feeling like I should step in front of a speeding bus and be done with all this misery.”

Kira flinched. “Don’t say things like that.”

“Don’t tell how I really feel, you mean?”

Awkward silence time again.

Kira glanced at her iPad, noticing the horror festival’s site for the first time since Lashon walked through the door. “Go out with me tonight.”

Lashon smirked. “What, like on a date?”

Kira turned the iPad toward her. “I’m checking this out later. Jason and Monroe are going, too.”

Lashon glanced at the screen, then looked at Kira, a corner of her mouth curling up. “
Those
guys.” She rolled her eyes, but her attention returned to the screen. She touched the screen and navigated to the page for
Blood Lust
. That didn’t surprise Kira. One of the things they’d first bonded over was their shared enthusiasm for all things vampy. “Shitty site.”

“Shitty movies, too, probably. Superlow-budget indie films made by nobodies. We’ll get really drunk and make fun of the movies. It’ll be fun and you could use a distraction. What do you say? You don’t really want to stay in by yourself, do you?”

Lashon continued to scroll down the page and began to smile. “Maybe not. I, uh, still, you know, don’t have any money.”

“I’ll pay.”

Lashon beamed and stood up straight. “Fabulous. I’ll go home and get myself ready.”

“Pick you up at six?”

Lashon picked up her book and started toward the door. She raised her latte cup in a salute. “Sounds good.”

Then the bell above the door jangled again and she was gone.

Kira stared after her for a long, pensive moment. Then she reached under the counter for her purse and took out her wallet. She extracted a sufficient amount to cover Lashon’s latte and opened the register.

Hidden behind a corner of the liquor store on the other side of the street, Greg Nelson watched her come out of the coffee shop and start off at a brisk pace down the sidewalk going in the opposite direction. Clad in black tights and a clingy black T-shirt, the willowy, dark-haired girl cut an angular figure against the glare of the bright sunlight. There was an extra spring in her step that hadn’t been there prior to her entering the coffee shop. He’d even caught a glimpse of a smile on her face before she’d turned and gone in the other direction.