Allhallow's Eve: (Richard Laymon Horror Classic) (17 page)

‘Something like that.’

‘My daughter saw that movie.’ He chuckled. ‘It scared her silly.’

‘I’m interested in the Sherwood house.’

‘You’re interested in buying it?’

Harold nodded, and poked a cigarette into his mouth. ‘Okay if I smoke?’

‘Sure. No problem. I’m a cigar smoker, myself.’ He pushed a spotless, glass ashtray over the desk toward Harold.

‘Thanks.’

‘So, you plan to do a little first-hand research for one of your books, Harold?’

‘Partly that.’ The cigarette bounced in his lips. ‘We hear it’s in bad shape. Is it liveable?’

‘Sure. No problem, there.’

‘What’s the asking price?’

Glendon told him.

Harold scowled through his smoke. ‘Sounds reasonable enough. What do you think, Seana?’

She arched an eyebrow, and nodded.

‘Most banks will want about fifteen percent down.’

‘No problem,’ said Harold, grinning.

The man’s casual attitude toward the price encouraged Glendon. Maybe this was a writer with money.

‘Well,’ Glendon said, ‘shall we go over and have a look-see?’

‘Let’s go.’

As they prepared to leave the office, Glendon asked, ‘You do know what happened there?’

‘Not as much as I’d like to.’

‘How did you hear about it?’

‘I’ve been corresponding with a fellow from your high school. The librarian there. Name of Nick Carlson.’

‘Oh?’

‘He says it’s been deserted since the murders.’

‘That’s right.’ Glendon turned off the lights, and held the door open. Harold and Seana stepped out. He locked the door. ‘My car’s just over there.’

They headed for the brown Fleetwood.

‘Nobody in this town’s too interested in living there, after what happened.’

‘Sherwood was the high school principal?’

‘Vice principal, I think. I tell you, this town was mighty shook up by the killings. Never did find out who did them, so I think about half the folks were just holding their breath, waiting for the killer to strike again. He never did, though. Whoever he was, he must’ve moved on.’

Glendon unlocked the passenger door, and opened it. ‘Plenty of room in the front,’ he said. They climbed in, and Glendon went around to the driver’s door. ‘Are you planning to write about the house, Harold?’

‘I’m more interested in the atmosphere, just now.’ He made that play-evil grin again. ‘I write better when I’m frightened. I like to scare myself.’

‘Well, this place should certainly fill the bill.’ Glendon started the car, and pulled away from the curb. ‘Do you write too, Seana?’

‘Not I. One neurotic in the family is enough.’

‘Will this be your first house?’

‘We have one near Portland,’ she said.

‘Has it sold yet?’

‘Oh, we’re keeping it.’

‘That’s our home base,’ Harold explained.

‘So you’re not planning to make Ashburg your home?’

‘For a year or two.’

‘Well, this’ll make a dandy fixer-upper. Do a few improvements, you should be able to sell it at a nice profit. Your living in it should take the curse off, and folks won’t be afraid to buy.’

‘If we don’t get butchered,’ Harold added, eyes twinkling.

Glendon laughed loudly. ‘Oh, I doubt you have to worry on that score.’

He swung his Fleetwood onto the driveway. Weeds had pushed through the loose gravel, and the yard was overgrown. He’d been careless, lately, about keeping the place up. Wouldn’t have to give it any more thought, though, if these folks took it off his hands.

He would be proved right about his investment, too. Everyone had said he was crazy when he bought the Sherwood house at public auction – for next to nothing. He’d finally almost decided they were right. But if these Krugs bought the place, he’d be doing very well indeed. Nobody laughs at a 500 percent profit.

‘Lawn needs some work,’ he admitted, shutting off the engine.

‘Needs a tractor,’ Harold said.

Glendon laughed. ‘At least you won’t be bothered by noisy neighbors. You’ve got your graveyard out back,
and the golf course in front. Mrs Hayes, over there, is an elderly lady who keeps to herself. And I’m sure nobody’ll be building on the Horner lot for some time.’

They climbed out of the car. ‘Electricity’s not on,’ Glendon said, and raised the lid of his trunk. He took out a powerful, battery-operated lantern. Then he led the way through the weeds. Smiling back, he noticed how the wind pushed Seana’s dress against her body, molding it to her breasts and slim legs as if the fabric were wet. Not a bad looking woman, he thought, if only she’d fix herself up a bit.

He paused at the foot of the veranda. The banister’s white paint was curling and flaking like the dead skin of a sunburn. ‘She could probably stand a coat of paint,’ he said.

Harold grinned. ‘Looks just great to me.’

They climbed the steps. ‘I guess,’ Glendon said, ‘if the place was all kept up neat and pretty, it wouldn’t have that atmosphere you’re talking about.’

‘Very true, Mr Morley.’

‘Call me Glendon, Harold.’

Harold nodded.

Glendon pushed a key into the padlock. ‘We had to put some extra security on the place,’ he said. ‘Otherwise, there’s no telling what might go on in here. Kids, you know. A few got in, a couple years back. Didn’t do much harm, though. Painted up the walls a bit, is all.’ He removed the padlock, and fit a key into the door’s lockface. ‘If you take the place, I’ll send a man out and have the boards taken off the windows. Windows are all intact, by the way.’

He opened the door. Light from outside spilled into
the foyer, and lit the foot of the stairway. ‘We can leave the door open. Give us a little extra light.’

He frowned, stepping inside. The stale air smelled of paint. Had someone broken in again?

‘Is it supposed to be haunted?’ Harold asked.

‘Everybody says so.’ Glendon hadn’t heard anything to that effect, but he knew the man wanted atmosphere so he elaborated. ‘They say the ghosts of the Sherwoods walk the rooms at midnight.’

‘Hope so,’ said Harold.

Glendon turned on his lantern. ‘The living room’s over here.’ He led the way. The smell of paint grew stronger. In the entry, he shined his wide beam into the room. He gasped, took a quick step backward, and bumped into Harold.

‘
Bars
on the windows?’ Harold asked.

‘Something’s wrong here.’

The front door banged shut.

Whirling around, he glimpsed a pale figure at the door. He shined his light on the motionless shape of a man. A policeman? The uniform was dark with stains like dry blood. The face under the brim of the cowboy hat looked vaguely familiar. Old, wrinkled, womanly, sagging like a poorly fitted mask.

‘Who are you?’ Glendon muttered.

‘Harry?’ Seana gasped.

Harold grabbed her shoulder, and pulled her close to him. ‘Is there a back way out of here?’ he asked.

‘Locked,’ Glendon said. ‘On the outside.’

One of the arms moved away from the silent man’s side. The hand gripped a hatchet.

Seana groaned.

‘No way out?’ Harold asked.

‘He’s standing in front of it.’

‘Give me that.’ He yanked the lantern from Glendon’s hand, and threw it toward the door.

‘What’re you …?’ Glendon stopped his voice as the light crashed and went out. For a few moments, his eyes retained the beam’s after-image. Then all he saw was blackness.

‘Blind man’s bluff,’ whispered Harold. His voice wasn’t close.

‘Don’t leave me!’ Glendon cried.

Light blasted his eyes as the front door flew open. In the glare from outside, he glimpsed Harold and Seana on the stairway, heading up,
leaving
him!

‘
Wait!
’

But then he saw his chance. The awful figure with the hatchet was gone. Had he run out?

Glendon sprang for the door.

It crashed shut in front of him.

He threw himself against it, clawing the knob, sobs shaking him as he realized that the man hadn’t run out the door, at all, but only hid behind it and now was coming at him in the darkness.

‘No please,’ he cried. ‘Don’t. Please!’

Something brushed against his hair. He jumped, bashing his forehead against the door.

‘Please,’ he sobbed. ‘Don’t …’

Something smacked his back, just below the shoulder blade. It split him, burning. The
hatchet
! It pulled out. It went away.

‘
No!
’ he shrieked.

He tugged the door, but it wouldn’t open. He felt a
sharp jolt, heard a
thunk
. Pain ripped across his back. He could feel it, actually feel the hatchet head inside his back, wedged between his ribs, feel it rock as the man tried to pull it out.

His legs went numb.

He fell facedown.

The hatchet went away.

Again, it chopped into his back. And again. Though the pain was a steady roar in his head, part of his mind seemed calm, almost rational. This must be Jim Sherwood, it told him. Jim’s ghost? He thinks I’m a trespasser. If I can just explain I’m his old friend Glen …

Another burst of pain shook him.

The hatchet chopped and chopped in the blackness. It struck his back, his shoulders, his buttocks. Glendon wanted to shout for the man to stop.

His voice wouldn’t work.

Who does he think I
am
?

A singsong voice from his childhood came back.

I’m nobody, who are you?

Harold pulled his wife by the hand through the blackness.

‘What’ll we do?’ she whispered.

‘Shhhh.’

He walked slowly, feeling the wall.

So hard to believe this was happening to them. Trapped in a deserted house by an ax-wielding maniac. He’d seen such situations countless times in the movies, read about them in so many books, written them himself more than once.

Incidental characters, in this circumstance, never
survived. The main character, though, usually found a way to triumph. Didn’t seem completely fair.

In his next book, he ought to handle it differently. Hell, though,
somebody
has to bite the dust.

Not us!

He found an open door, pulled Seana inside, and shut it. He felt the knob. Found a lock button, pushed it. The lock made a feeble click.

‘That won’t … He’s got a hatchet.’

‘I know.’ Harold found the light switch, and flicked it. Nothing happened. He took a matchbook from a pocket of his corduroy jacket, flipped open its cover, and peeled out a cardboard match. He struck it.

In the shimmering light, he saw that they’d taken refuge in a bathroom.

Seana sat down on the toilet seat, and rubbed her face.

Harold stepped to the sink. He smiled nervously at himself in the medicine cabinet mirror. The reflection of his face, quivering with deep shadows, looked demonic. He quickly lowered his eyes to the sink. He turned a faucet handle. It squawked, but no water came.

‘Can’t flood him out,’ he whispered, grinning.

He pulled open the medicine cabinet. Its shelves were bare. The flame singed his fingers. He dropped the match into the sink, and lit another.

A large tub. A shower curtain rod with metal rings but no curtain.

At the far end of the tub was the bathroom’s only window. No light came through. A wrought-iron grate covered it on the inside. ‘What are the
bars
for?’ he muttered.

‘To keep us in,’ said Seana.

‘This guy does plan ahead.’

‘I’m glad you haven’t lost your sense of humor.’

‘It’s always the last to go.’

‘What’ll we do?’

He shook out his match. Whispering in the darkness, he said, ‘Did you bring your gun?’

‘Oh Harold.’

‘No, I didn’t think …’ He jumped as something crashed against the door. ‘
Jeezus!
’ Rushing through the darkness, he bumped into Seana. They both fell. ‘Here.
Here
’ He pushed the matchbook into her hand. ‘Light ’em for me.’

‘What’re you …’

Another blow shocked the door.

Harold scurried off Seana. Standing, he jerked open his belt. He tugged it off.

‘Light.’

Seana struck a match. In its wavering glow, he saw a splintered gash in the door panel. He stepped to the side. The hatchet struck again, shaking the door. A corner of its head appeared. It hit again, spraying splinters, the hatchet head breaking through the door. Harold hooked his belt under it, looped over its top, and yanked. The hatchet sprang loose. He pulled it in.