Horror Show (36 page)

The moans were getting louder and more agitated. Clint looked at the floor as if it were on fire. His dread swam unchallenged through his bloodstream, and the wild taste of terror was on his lips. “You're insane,” he whined.

“Suit yourself.” Landis laughed, coughed. There was another escalation of moaning, sending shivers down Clint's back as if he'd been doused by a bucket of ice water.

“
What the fuck is it
?” Clint screamed, his voice trembling now, brittle and unsteady as he began to back away.

“I told you, but you don't believe me,” Landis said.

The pounding shook the floor.

“Let's get outa here!” Clint shouted.

Landis shrugged. “No place to run, no place to hide.”

Clint grabbed Landis's arm and shook the old man's frail body. “Out! Now!” he shouted.

Landis looked into his eyes. The atmosphere in the room was becoming unbearable; the terrible moaning and pounding shook the air itself.

“Yeah, okay. Upstairs.”

Clint grabbed his cassette recorder and camera and stumbled toward the door. The old man stumbled behind him. Together they reached the steps, the owls screeched and flew from their perches. Clint slammed the door behind him when he realized that the old man wasn't going to.

“Hurry up, for God's sake!” Clint choked.

Behind them the sound of the floor buckling upward cracked the night. The trapdoor, set in the floor he'd been standing on a few moments ago, creaked and split, pulling the rug up. It hovered for a second, opened a few inches, screeching like a banshee, then crashed open with enough force to shake the house.

“Oh, shit,” Clint brayed. He pushed the old man aside to mount the stairs. Landis bounced off the wall like a skeleton. The kid flew past him with the swiftness of youth.

“Come on!” he shouted at Landis.

The old man arrived at the top of the stairs what seemed like hours later, puffing and gripping his chest, laboring across the threshold.

Clint slammed that door and fumbled with the lock.

He then turned and noticed the old man. His face was as white as parchment; a sheen of sweat had broken out and he seemed to be fighting for every breath.

“You don't look so good,” Clint said.

Clint had never seen a person have a heart attack before, but he knew that's what it was. The color of the face, the shortness of breath, and the dangling left arm gave it away. The old man leaned against the wall, looking like death itself.

“You got some medicine or something?” Clint asked.

Landis shook his head. He couldn't talk anymore.

Before Clint could begin to worry about Landis Woodley's health, the sounds from below drew closer. The first door banged open. The moaning continued.

“This ain't real, is it?” Clint asked, his heart galloping.

In spite of his pain, Landis smiled
.

Something began to climb the stairs. Heavy footsteps thudded closer.

Clint looked like he was going to cry. Landis's smile was frozen on his face as he watched the kid. The terrible burning in his chest was overwhelming. He was in real danger of falling down, but he held on like the tenacious survivor that he was.

The kid knew that he should run, and, for some perverse reason didn't. But the old man wasn't going anywhere. His heart was too weak.

The thing trudged slowly up the wooden stairs, as if the weight of the world were on its shoulders. The kid realized that he was staying.

He rationalized it by saying that the thing, the bad thing, was slow. Even if it splintered through that door and made a lunge at them, Clint was young and quick and would be able to escape.

Besides, he wanted to see it. He had to get a picture. He had to. He fumbled with the camera, popping the autoflash up and sliding back the lens cover.
Whatever it is
, he told himself,
I'm going to get at least one good shot of it
.

All those years of horror movies had culminated in this, face-to-face with real terror. He shuddered, as much thrilled as afraid. The fear, like a drug, was numbing, intoxicating. It filled his blood as if injected there by a mainline fix.

Let me see it. I want to see it before I run
.

The door shook. The thing on the other side had reached the top of the stairs and was leaning into it. The old wood creaked, then cracked. A thin fissure appeared in the thick molding, splitting the length of the oft-painted wood. Funny that Clint could see so much in so short a time, but he noticed the colors it had been before, at least three different layers of paint.

He was rooted, poised to escape but not wanting to, just yet. Like a child covering his eyes when the monster came on the screen, he was aware of the intensity of his fear. It was a rich, heavy opium that paralyzed and stupefied. Was that how a cornered animal felt? Unable to find his legs, he stood by the old man and waited for death to make an entrance.

Let me see it. I just want to see what it looks like
.

What would the monster do? Was it only after Landis Woodley, or did it want to destroy everything in its path? Clint realized, in a moment of lucidity, that he was measuring his chances. Apparently, his subconscious thought they were pretty good, because he had yet to move.

Why am I like this
, Clint wondered.
Why can't I just turn my back on this shit and beat feet? Any normal person would be out of here. What is it inside me that makes me want to stay
?

He thought about the army men he placed around his room at night; he thought about the plastic monster models and how they were so hard to control. Were they really his friends or enemies? He built them, but would they turn on him after the lights went out, as Frankenstein's monster had done? The army guys had a dual role. Not only did they guard against the creatures from without; they guarded against the far more dangerous creatures from within.

Clint watched the door buckle. The hinges, screwed deep in the rotten wood, groaned as they were pulled out of shape. The bad thing moaned again, this time louder than Clint had ever heard.

The sound was terrifying. It pushed all the panic buttons in Clint, sending overdoses of adrenaline into his heart. He brought the camera to his eye and positioned his finger over the shutter release.

He was like a runner in the starting box, every muscle taut. Ready to explode. Ready to take flight. Yet, he waited.

Let me see it. I just want to see what it looks like
.

Landis was waiting, too
, but for a vastly different reason. He knew that he should run, but his body would not, could not, respond. So, he waited for his fate.

Then he remembered Buzzy's warning.
Somebody had to die
.

Landis looked at the kid, the poor ridiculous kid. He considered his options and made a swift decision.

Could I live with myself
? he asked his tarry heart.

Yep. No problem
.

Landis was not surprised by his answer. Maybe the fact that he was five or six heartbeats away from a massive cardiac arrest influenced his thinking.

The door splintered open
, not with a great thump and smash, but more like gradual pressure. It sounded like ice cracking.

It caved outward toward Landis.

The kid was trembling, camera at the ready. The flash went off as he clicked a picture. Landis grabbed his arm at the bicep. As the thing came through the door, he used the last ounce of strength he had to shove the kid into the oncoming monster. They collided and both went tumbling back down the stairs. The moaning reached a crescendo, then stopped abruptly.

Two seconds later, Clint screamed loud enough to wake the dead.

In the gardener's house
, Emil looked up from his can of Viennas. The scream was coming from the house. The old man, he thought, always with the horror movies.

This one sounded almost real.

EPILOGUE

Roberta Bachman's phone rang, but she was too depressed to answer it. Life had taken one of its mean plot twists and left her feeling very guilty. She had sent Clint out on an assignment she knew could have been dangerous, and he had not yet returned.

It had been two days now, and she was beside herself with worry. She took full responsibility for whatever had happened to him. She realized that the only way for her to know for sure was to go over there.

She dreaded it.

Forty years ago she had fled that place in tears and vowed never to return. Now, to find her missing reporter, she knew she had to.

The prerecorded message came on and she listened to a tiny metallic imitation of her own voice. “Hello, you have reached Roberta Bachman's office. I'm away from my desk right now, so please leave a message.”

Beep.

A gruff voice, deep and resonant but with none of the charm, spoke.

“Roberta,” it said.

She inched closer to the idle phone, chilled by the sound of the voice, debating whether to pick up the receiver or not.

“Roberta,” it repeated. “I know you're there. Pick up the goddamn phone.”

Roberta froze.

“The kid you sent is gone. We both can live another year …”

Suddenly she snatched the hand set off the cradle. “What do you mean, he's gone?” she shouted into the mouthpiece.

“Ahh, I knew you were there. Are you avoiding me?”

“What do you mean, he's gone?” she repeated.

“Gone … that's all. Just, gone.”

She let the words fall. Her eyes watered and she felt the tremble of anger.

The voice on the other end of the line sensed it and picked up the silence. “Gone,” it continued. “Just like Buzzy and all the others.”

“What did you do to him? If any harm comes to Clint, I'll—”

“I didn't do a thing to him. But, like I said, he's gone.”

“Gone?”

“Somebody had to go, somebody who
knew.
”

“Goddamn you!” she screamed. “You are the lowest form of life on this planet, you know that?”

“Yep,” the voice said smugly. “People keep saying that. I guess it must be true. Listen, I just wanted to thank you for sending that little shit over here. He was just what the doctor ordered.”

Roberta's face went crimson. “What are you saying? That I knew something would happen? Clint wasn't involved; he was outside the loop. You're sick!”

Landis chuckled, his laugh low and sinister. “You're cute when you're mad.”

“Where is he, Landis?”

“The curse … it got him.” Landis was breathing heavy now, like an obscene caller. “I don't know how it's possible, but he figured everything out. That thing … it knows. It knows when somebody is too close to the truth. It protects itself. It takes a life and goes away for a while.”

“I'm going to the police,” she snapped.

“Go,” he replied.

“I'm gonna see you fry,” she blurted.

“Do it,” he whispered. “Just don't forget me … because I won't forget you.”

She slammed the phone down hard. Her hands were shaking. She crossed the carpeted floor of her office and found the framed litho hanging prominently on the wall. She gripped her fingers around the right edge and pulled.

The picture swung away from the patterned wallboard. Behind it was a sizable wall safe with a combination lock. Skillfully she spun the dial, feeding in the numbers, feeling the tumblers click. In a moment it was open. She reached inside and removed a wrapped package. She placed the package on her desk and undid the rope that bound it. The plastic bubble wrap gave way to some cotton toweling.

Then she pulled the cloth away.

There were the tuning forks. They gleamed dully in the recessed halogen light. She stared at them hypnotically, the sense of wonder and awe that visited her every time she looked at them returned. It was followed, inevitably, by fear and nausea.

Her trembling hands went for the telephone book and began to thumb the pages.

Why have I waited so long? Why did I procrastinate? God, I only hope it's not too late
.

She'd been smart years ago when he came to her uncharacteristically repentant and afraid. She'd been smart to use his infatuation with her to make him relinquish the tuning forks. She'd been smart to keep them where they couldn't cause any more trouble—out of people's hands, out of
Landis
's hands. But, she'd been stupid to wait this long to deal with them.

She scanned the pages for “M” until she found what she was looking for. Not sure of what she wanted to say, she dialed the number. A man answered on the second ring.

“King's Precision Metal Casting. Stephen speaking, how can I help you?”

“Can you melt something down for me?” she asked.

“We have a foundry, ma'am. What kind of die cast would you need?”

“I don't care, I just want it melted down into any shape you want.”

The man at the other end of the phone line hesitated. He was unsure of what this woman wanted. “Uhm, let me get this straight. You have a piece of metal that you want me to melt down and you don't care what shape it becomes?”

“Yes, that's it basically. Can you do it?”

The man smiled. This lady was nuts. “Well, that's highly irregular, we usually melt something down and cast it into another shape.”

“I want this thing melted down to nothing. I want it destroyed,” Roberta said.

“Wait a sec.”

There was a pause. Her eyes strayed to the tuning forks. They seemed to pulse, but Roberta was sure that was an optical illusion. She covered them and waited for a reply.

The voice returned. “Sure, we can do it. Bring it on down.”

As he was about to hang up, Roberta heard another man ask what that was all about.

“Hell if I know,” he answered truthfully. “Some crazy lady.”

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I would like to thank the following people for their invaluable help: Lori Perkins, Peter Rubie, Natalia Aponte, Joel Turtle, Jack Heyrman, Kirk Iventosch, Alexis Kihn, Ryan Kihn, Jay Arafiles, Steve Wright, Danielle Winograd, and Dr. Mark Tidyman. I'd also like to tip my hat to the great musicians, too numerous to mention, I've had the opportunity to play with in my life. God bless 'em all.