Allhallow's Eve: (Richard Laymon Horror Classic) (10 page)

‘I’ll keep an eye out,’ she said.

‘I appreciate all your help. And your coffee.’ Reaching for the doorknob, his back to Melodie, he felt uneasy – as if he’d forgotten something important. He turned to her, wondering what it could be. ‘Thanks again,’ he said.

‘It’s been nice knowing you, Sam Wyatt. However briefly.’

He pulled her against him, felt her softness and warmth, her lips and the wetness of her mouth. Then her cheek was damp against his face, and he saw that she was crying.

‘I’m sorry,’ he whispered.

She pressed her wet eyes to the side of his neck. ‘That’s okay,’ she said. ‘I was afraid you’d leave …’

‘I have to.’

‘… without kissing good-bye.’

Lynn Horner was watching television with her two boys when the lights went out.

‘Oh no,’ said the older boy, John.

‘Hank?’ Lynn asked. She saw the vague figure of her husband sit upright in his chair.

‘Probably a fuse,’ he grumbled. He sounded only half awake.

‘Well, go see.’

‘Yeah,’ John said. ‘We’re gonna miss the best part.’

‘That’d be a pity,’ Hank said, getting to his feet.

‘Just ’cause
you
fell asleep.’

‘I’ll go with,’ said Mike.

‘Sure, come on.’

The younger boy sprang to his feet. In the dark, he collided with his brother.

‘Hey, watch who you’re stepping on,’ Joe complained. ‘Klutz.’

‘Oh, go soak your head.’

‘
Boys
,’ Lynn said.

Mike hurried after his father. ‘Hey, wait up, Dad.’

‘Get a move on, then,’ his voice called from the hall. ‘God forbid anyone should miss the end of the show.’

‘Boy,’ Joe muttered. ‘What a crummy thing to happen.’

‘It’s not the end of the world,’ Lynn said. Turning around on the couch, she pulled aside the curtain and looked outside. The nearby streetlight was shining brightly. There were no houses across the street, though, to check for lights. The trees on the golf course were blowing fiercely. ‘The wind might’ve knocked down a power line,’ she said.

‘Wouldn’t
that
be great.’

‘You can always catch the rerun.’

‘Sure. Six months from now. If we’re home. If the television doesn’t bust again.’

‘You’re probably just missing a commercial, anyway.’

‘Yeah, sure.’

‘I always thought it was fun to lose the power. It used to happen all the time, during thunderstorms. We’d get out candles, and tell scary stories …’

‘Sounds like a ball.’

‘My son, the cynic.’

‘What’s taking them so long?’

‘Maybe a goblin got ’em.’

‘Sure.’

‘Ate ’em up.’

Joe laughed. ‘You’re nuts.’

‘Ghoulies,’ she moaned. ‘And ghosties, and long-leggity beasties …’

‘Oh, cut it out.’

‘Tomorrow’s Halloween. Maybe they’re out early, this year, and came creeping and crawling out of their graves, looking for little boys.’

‘
Mom
.’

‘They get lonesome in their graves and crypts. On Halloween, they like to crawl out and creep around, and grab little boys to take back with them – to keep them company.’

‘That’s disgusting.’

‘They like cynical little boys the best.’

‘Yeah?’

‘’Cause they make such good conversation.’

‘Sometimes I think you’re cracked.’

‘Woooooo.’

‘Cut it out, would you?’

‘
Woooooooo!
’ Slowly, arms out, she stood up and stepped toward Joe. ‘
Wooooooooo
. Time to come with me to the grave. It’s so cold and lonely down there.’

‘Mom!’

She grinned at the tremor in his voice. ‘And I get so
hungry
, down there.’ She lunged at him.

Joe squealed and rolled out of her reach. ‘Stop that!’ he snapped, crawling across the carpet.

‘You can’t get away from me.’ She lumbered toward him.

‘Would you
stop
! I’m not amused.’

Lynn dropped her arms. ‘Party pooper.’ She returned to the couch, and flopped down. ‘Must not’ve been a fuse,’ she said. ‘They’d have things fixed, by now.’

‘Great.’

If the power isn’t on by bedtime, she thought, she’d have to dig out the travel clock. Where had she stored it? She concentrated, and remembered leaving it in her suitcase so she wouldn’t have trouble finding it, next time they took a trip. The suitcase was in the garage. Lovely.

‘Jeez,’ Joe said. ‘The show’s probably over, by now.’

‘Well, those are the …’

The lights and television blinked on.

‘There!’

‘See what I told you?’ Joe asked. The show’s theme was playing as its credits rolled up the screen.

‘Well, it’s too bad. Could be worse, though.’

‘I doubt it.’

‘Why don’t you go upstairs and get your p.j.’s on.’

‘Mom!’

‘It’s nine o’clock.’

‘It isn’t fair.’

‘You scoot upstairs and get ready for bed, then you can come down and watch TV until Mike’s ready.’

‘All
right
!’ He scurried to his feet, and ran from the room. Lynn heard his footsteps pounding on the stairs.

The air in the den felt chilly. She pressed her legs together, and wrapped her red robe more tightly around herself.

Hank must’ve opened the back door, for some reason.

She folded her arms. Their warm pressure felt good on her taut nipples. She rubbed her legs against each other. Their skin was pebbled and achy with goose-bumps.

Had he
left
the door open?

She got up from the couch, and stepped out of the den. She walked down a dark hallway toward the kitchen. The swinging door was shut. A band of light showed beneath it.

Hank and Mike were sure taking their time. Maybe they’d decided to polish off the angel food cake.

Pushing open the door, she stepped into the kitchen.
Her bare foot splashed into blood. It slipped and shot forward. She fell back, grabbing the waste basket. It tumbled onto her, throwing coffee grounds and chicken bones on her robe. The door swung against her shoulder. Shoving it away, gasping, she sat up. The floor was puddled with blood, the oven door dripping.

‘Hank!’ she cried.

She struggled to her feet. She stepped past the refrigerator. Looking toward the alcove at the far end of the kitchen, she saw Hank sitting upright at the breakfast table. Mike lay on the table, shirt open, a knife and fork protruding from his belly.

‘
Hank?
’ she gasped.

She saw Hank’s arm on the floor near his feet. Her mouth jerked open to scream. A hand covered it – a slippery hand that stank of blood. It yanked her backwards against a panting body. Another hand swung around from the side, plunging a carving fork toward her belly. She brought up her arms. The long tines jabbed into her forearm. Pain blasted through her.

Twisting, she kicked up her legs. The man lost his grip, and she fell to her rump. She flung herself sideways, rolling, and got to her hands and knees before the man grabbed the back of her robe collar and threw her down. Her back hit the floor.

He stomped on her belly, driving the wind from her. She doubled and clutched her knees until the man took her ankles. Her robe and nightgown flopped down, covering her face as he lifted her off the floor.

He swung her by the feet.

Swung her in a circle like a father playing with his child.

Faster and faster.

She tugged at the clothing bunched over her head. Pulled it free. Saw her naked body flying in circles around a huge, grinning man. One of her outflung arms struck the refrigerator. She had no breath to scream at the pain. The twirling man stepped closer to the refrigerator.

Next time around, more than her arm would hit.

She tried to curl forward but the momentum kept her stretched and the edge of the refrigerator door struck her face.

Joe Horner spat in the sink and rinsed his toothbrush. He cupped cold water with his hand, drank some, and rinsed the toothpaste foam off his lips and chin. Putting away his brush, he saw a glob of striped paste and streams of spittle in the sink. Mom, he knew, would nag if he left it there. But she wouldn’t see it before Mike came in to brush his teeth. Let Mike take care of it. He dried his mouth and hurried downstairs.

Nobody in the den.

Great!

He flipped through the channels to
Night Beat
, a cop show he’d only seen once, on a fabulous night when Jean was babysitting and she let him and Mike stay up late if they promised not to tell.

He sat cross-legged on the floor.

Maybe, if he was really good, Mom and Dad would let him see the whole show. After all, he’d been cheated out of the last one.

Fat chance.

‘Not on a school night,’ they’d say.

Well, if they stayed away long enough …

He sighed with disappointment at the sound of footsteps in the hall.

‘Hey, Dad, this is a really neat …’

The man who stepped into the den wasn’t Dad.

Sam drove back toward Ashburg, listening to quiet music on the radio, his mind on Melodie and Cynthia and his new problem.

He wanted to see Melodie again. He wanted to look in her wide, eager eyes. He wanted to hear her voice. He wanted to hold her, and feel the warmth of her body against him.

Melodie, not Cynthia. Damn it, how could this happen? He’d thought he loved Cynthia, thought he wanted to marry her. It didn’t seem right that suddenly, by accident, he should meet a woman who made him want to break away from her.

God, how could he do that to Cynthia?

‘I’m not going to disappear,’ he’d told her this morning.

‘I’ve heard that before,’ she’d answered.

Damn it, she
expected
him to dump her. As if she thought she deserved to fall in love with men and lose them. Life had taught her some nasty lessons: if Sam left her, he’d be adding his own.

He couldn’t.

That’s it for Melodie.

The pain of the thought made him want to jam on the
brakes, whip the car around and speed back to the motel. He would take Melodie in his arms, kiss …
No!

His clenched hands ached on the steering wheel.

I’ve chosen Cynthia, he told himself. I can’t go back on her now. It’s too late for that. In a few days, I’ll forget all about Melodie.

No, I won’t forget her.

But I can’t have her. There’s plenty of things you can’t have, in this world, and you go along with it because you don’t have a choice.

I have a choice here, though. I could stop seeing Cynthia, make up excuses …

That’s no choice.

I just can’t do that.

I can’t.

Why, damn it to hell, did I have to follow Elmer out there tonight?

He pounded the steering wheel. He was tempted to bash his forehead against it, and wondered if he was going crazy.

Then, up ahead, he saw a quivering red glow in the sky.

‘My God,’ he muttered.

His foot rammed the gas pedal to the floor.

Must be the Sherwood place, he thought as he sped up the road. There were only a few houses this far out on Oakhurst, and the Sherwood house seemed most likely.

Not surprising for an abandoned structure like that to go up in smoke.

Kids or a derelict could’ve broken in, started a fire. Or Glendon Morley, its owner, might’ve finally decided to sell it to the insurance company.

Had to be arson. Had to be.

Swinging his car around a bend, Sam saw the last house on Oakhurst Road – the home of Clara Hayes. It was okay. Then the Sherwood place came into view, its front shimmering with fireglow, red emergency lights streaking across it. The next house was a pyre.

As he raced toward it, he tried to think who lived there. He didn’t know. Parking in front, he leaped from his car. He spotted Berney near the tail of the hook-and-ladder truck parked in the yard, and ran to him.

‘She’s a goner,’ Berney said.

‘Whose place is it?’

‘Horners.’

‘They get out okay?’

Berney shook his head, his glasses flashing reflections of the blaze. ‘Nobody’s seen ’em,’ he said. ‘A neighbor down the road called in the alarm. By the time we got here …’