Fright Night (2 page)

“I’m really sorry,” she purred, and then nailed him with an entirely believable kiss. It lasted through the spots for Slim Whitman and Barney’s Karpet Kingdom, then cut off with the Planned Parenthood ad.

When they pulled apart, Amy stared at a spot on his shoulder. She was blushing, and her features were set in a kind of startled determination.

“Would you like to make love to me?” she tried to say. It came out as little more than a whisper.

Charley was stunned. A lump the size of his thumb got lodged in his throat. “Are you serious?” he croaked.

She nodded, red-faced and strangely resolute. She still couldn’t look him in the eyes; when he leaned down to kiss her, she turned her face up to his with her eyes already closed.

Charley’s heart and hormones were doing elaborate backflips. His erection which had softened, sprang back to attention. They turned slowly in each other’s arms as they kissed, and for some reason he kept his eyes open, vision gliding along the wall, turning into the room, sweeping over the
Fright Night
logo on the tube . . .

. . . and then riveting on a spot in the darkness beyond the window.

What the hell?
he thought, lips disengaging from Amy’s. He couldn’t believe what he was seeing.

Amy slipped out of Charley’s grasp and slid gracefully over to the bed. Part of her felt incredibly awkward: the frightened virgin before the blood and pain gave way to what she hoped would be ecstasy. But she had made a decision, and the choosing made her stronger somehow. Her movements betrayed none of her insecurity.

I’m going to do it,
she thought.
I’m really going to do it.
She flopped down on the black-and-white comforter that covered the bed, coyly seductive, and looked at her chosen first lover.

He was staring out the window. In fact, he had grabbled the binoculars off his desk and was using them to get a closer look. She thought it was a little bit strange, but she was too engrossed in her own feelings to bend too far out of shape.

Peter Vincent came back on the tube just as Amy began to unbutton her blouse. This Peter Vincent was a good twenty years older than the one in the movie: his jet-black hair now turned gray, his strong and handsome face lined with age and pitted with weariness. His delivery was stale as ever, but the air of certain victory he’d brought into his films had been replaced by an aura of defeat. In his gaudy cloak and rumpled black suit, he looked like a vampire who’d switched from blood to Geritol.

“I hope you are enjoying our
Fright Night
feature,
Blood Castle,”
he intoned, mock-sinister. Behind him, styrofoam tombstones wobbled on a cheesy television soundstage; a crudely drawn full-moon-over-the-cemetery mural dangled crookedly from a pair of visible wires. “It’s an all-time favorite monster marathon of mine . . .”

Amy stopped listening. She was down to her last two buttons, and Charley still hadn’t turned around.
Maybe he’s just being shy,
she thought, but it didn’t quite ring true. For one thing, he hadn’t been the least bit shy about pawing her like an animal; for another, he still had the binoculars pasted to his head. If he wanted to see something up close, she reasoned, one would think he’d be aiming them at her tits.

“Charley, I’m ready,” she said, very softly. He didn’t respond. She tried it again, a little more loudly.

No response. A bit annoyed, and more than a bit confused, she said, “Charley!” once more.

“Amy,” he said suddenly. “You’re not going to believe this, but there are two guys carrying a coffin into the house next door.”

Two guys—Peter Vincent and Jonathan the wimp—were carrying a coffin on the TV screen.
Blood Castle
had resumed. “If you come here, you can see the exact same thing,” she said, smiling wickedly. “With a couple of fringe benefits besides.”

“Amy, I’m serious.”

“So am I.”

“No, you don’t understand. They’re . . . Jesus, they’re carrying it into the cellar, through the storm doors.” He sounded genuinely agitated.

He wasn’t the only one. She was getting impatient, and goosebumps were starting to form on her exposed flesh. “Charley, cut it out and come here. I’m getting cold.”

His only response was a muttered “Jesus,” and a slight shift of position at the window.

“Charley,” she growled, “do you want me or not?”

“Amy, come here and look at this,” he said. It was as if she hadn’t spoken. “Honest to God, this is weird—”

“Okay, that’s
it!”
she yelled, rolling furiously off the bed, her feet thudding loudly on the floor. She fumbled with her buttons as she stomped toward the door. Charley finally turned around.

“You’re a real jerk, Charley,” she hissed at him, eyes flashing. “Just forget I ever offered. Just forget,” and she waggled her finger for emphasis, “that you ever even knew me at all.”

“But . . . but . . .” Charley was positively stymied. His jaw hung open; the binoculars were clutched dumbly in his hands. “Where are you going?”

“Away from you,” she snapped, grabbing the doorknob and twisting it savagely. The door flew open with a thunderous bang as she stormed past it and down the hallway to the stairs.

All the desire had leaked right out of her like air from a ruptured balloon. The rage that took its place was white-hot and deadly. She hoped that Charley wouldn’t be stupid enough to try to face it. She would singe the hair right out of his nostrils.

But he was coming, sure enough: clomping down the hallway after her, braying her name like a snotty-nosed toddler. She finished buttoning her blouse and hit the stairs noisily, hoping the clatter would wake his mother up and that he’d get in trouble.

“Amy, please!” he cried. She could hear him racing to catch up with her. “You gotta believe me! Those people were doing something really strange . . .”

“You’re the only strange one around here, Charley.” Her voice was level and full of venom. She refused to stop, or to look at him.

“But they were carrying a coffin!” He caught up with her at last, put one hand on her shoulder.

“So what!”
she yelled, whirling to face him. He backed off, startled. It pleased her. “Listen, if you’re so interested in coffins, why don’t you just go over there and help them carry it? Better yet, why don’t you go back up to your stupid Peter Vincent?
He’s
probably still dragging one around!”

“He’s
not
stupid,” Charley countered. She’d hit a nerve, making fun of his hero.
Tough,
she thought, smiling through her anger.

“Tell you what,” she concluded. “Here’s the best idea yet. Why don’t you just dig a nice deep hole and lay in it? Maybe the neighbors will let you borrow
their
coffin!”

“Amy!”

They hit the bottom of the stairs together, Amy striding quickly toward the living room and front door. Charley dragged slightly behind, which suited her splendidly, because it meant that she didn’t have to look at his face. “I can show myself out—” she began.

And then a voice from the living room jarred her to a halt.

“Amy? Charley?” the voice called, chirping musically in the upper registers. “Is anything wrong?”

It was Mrs. Brewster, sitting smack dab in the middle of the living room, right in front of the TV. Her back was to them, but they could see her clearly. Amy frantically straightened clothes and hair, heard Charley doing the same. She felt suddenly stupid and mean.

“Are you two having a lovers’ quarrel?” Mrs. Brewster pried sweetly.

“No, Mom. Nothing like that.” Charley stepped past Amy and into the living room. He looked embarrassed. She felt a sudden rush of empathy for him.

“Well, there’s nothing wrong with a little spat now and then,” Mrs. Brewster said, turning to face them. “I just read this article in
McCall’s
today. It said that the divorce rate is seventy-eight per cent higher among couples who don’t argue before marriage.” She seemed to think it was a pretty impressive statistic.

“Mom, we’re in high school.” Charley’s voice was plaintive.

“Well, yes, that’s true.” She looked puzzled for a moment, then brightened. “But it pays to plan ahead!”

Amy liked Mrs. Brewster. She was a classic Momicon: the kind of pretty-faced housewife on afternoon television who buys St. Joseph’s aspirin for her children. Petite, in her mid-forties, with frosty-blond hair and a face that rarely failed to smile. She was terribly sweet and more than slightly dizzy . . . more than a little bit like her son.

She’d make a wonderful mother-in-law,
Amy found herself thinking, and quickly stifled the thought.

“Amy?” Mrs. Brewster said. “Say hello to your mother for me, will you? And remind her that we’re playing bridge at her house this weekend. I’ll bring the Cheese Doodles if she makes her pecan pie.” She giggled; Becky Peterson’s pecan pie was legend.

“I certainly will,” Amy said.

“Thank you, sweetie. You’re a doll.” They beamed at each other.
How can she possibly be so NICE?
Amy thought. Then Mrs. Brewster added, “And thank you for helping Charley with his algebra. It drives him crazy, poor dear. He just can’t seem to get the hang of it. You know, I
always
had a hard time with math in school!”

She giggled. Amy could picture her, giggling her way through finals back in the fifties; she wondered what it would have been like to be a teenager then, and couldn’t imagine it.

She wondered, briefly, what Mr. Brewster had been like. And why he’d left her.

Mrs. Brewster was prattling on about her youth, her grades, some crazy girlfriend who was in love with Wally Cleaver. Amy shifted her attention to Charley for a second, wondering if she was still mad at him or not, wondering what
he
was feeling.

He was looking out the goddam window again.

She followed his gaze. From where she was standing, she couldn’t see anything. If he was bored it was understandable, but it was not polite.
The least you could do is pretend to pay attention,
she told him silently.

She was pissed again. She tried not to let Mrs. Brewster see it. “Well, I’ve got to be running,” she said. “I promised I’d be home by midnight, and I’m already a little late.”

“Oh! Well, good night! And be careful going home. Drunk drivers are everywhere.” Even when she was serious, the lines in Mrs. Brewster’s face were smiling. Long-standing habit, immortalized in flesh.

“I’ll be careful,” Amy said. Then, almost as an afterthought, she turned to the window and said, “Good night, Charley.”

“Yeah. Good night,” he muttered, abstracted.

It was the last straw. She’d gone up and down and up and down with him; and even after she’d told him how she felt, he was still the same jerk, his binoculars pointing the wrong way.

He didn’t turn until she’d slammed the door behind her.

“That wasn’t very nice,” Mrs. Brewster said, “not walking Amy to the door.”

“What?” Charley said. His mind was aswirl. There were lights on in the house next door. He hadn’t seen lights there for almost a year.

“It wasn’t very nice. It was rude. You know that.”

“Yeah, but . . .” There was no arguing with it. She was right. It
was
rude.

But the fact was that he had seen two strange men carry a coffin into the basement of an abandoned house. Now there were lights on in the living room. It seemed to him that Amy should have checked it out with him instead of just getting pissed. It seemed to him like he wasn’t entirely off the wall in wanting to know just what the hell was going on.

“Mom,” he said, “there are some people next door.”

“Oh! That must be the new owner!”

“What
new owner?”

“Didn’t I tell you? Bob Hopkins finally sold the place.”

“To who?”

“I don’t know. Some man who likes to fix up old houses, apparently. I just hope that he knows what he’s in for. That place would need a lot of work before
I’d
be willing to live there!”

She giggled. Mom always giggled. Sometimes he wanted to throttle her for it; sometimes it endeared her to him. Tonight it was completely irrelevant.

When he closed his eyes, he could still see the coffin: huge, ornate and bound in brass. It was a beautiful piece of work, and it looked incredibly old. It was the kind of thing that he would covet, ordinarily; the kind of thing that he and Evil Ed would have a blast with, camping it up in classic Peter Vincent style.

So why had he gotten such a horrible chill, seeing it? And why wouldn’t the thought of it leave him alone?

As if in answer, the late-night newscaster came on TV: pudgy-faced and leisure-suited, the words “Robert Rodale” in videotype across his chest. “Good evening,” he said. “This is a KTOR News Break. Tonight the headless body of an unidentified man was found behind the Rancho Corvallis railway station . . .”

Reflexively, Charley turned back to the window. The blinds were drawn in the house next door.

And the horror was only beginning.

TWO