Night Of The Beast (29 page)

Bates forced himself to take Martoni first, grabbing the dead face in his big hands and pulling the body towards him. He threw the bundle over his shoulder. The man felt slightly lighter
[as if the body is alive again?].
Stop that shit. Just getting stiff.

He went up to the big wooden doors of the mortuary and pushed. They opened, hinges squeaking a little, bottoms grating against some gravel and dirt blown up by the storm. He fumbled for the lights.
There's something wrong with this dimmer switch,
he thought
. Can't seem to make it any brighter in here.

The chairs and couches were all a garish red, their coverings split with age. In some places the torn plastic had been patched together with black electrical tape. Glenn carried Martoni to a table and set him down gently. He tugged the multi-colored Navajo blanket over the face, covering that horrid grimace.

He went back, got Urich and stumbled by the steps again. This time he called out: "Jase? Jason?"

No answer.
Strange son of a bitch. Let him find his guests in the morning, over breakfast.

Bates placed Urich in an armchair, making sure the druggist's face was hidden. He was almost sober and he wanted to go home. There was a cluttered desk in the far corner. He walked over to it, his footsteps echoing in the empty room, and found some writing paper.

He scribbled a note to Jason Smith, aware that he was hurrying. Something was creeping up his spine and the air felt heavy and damp. It stank. Bates wrote of the need for funeral arrangements, said he'd call in the morning. His signature was illegible. He left the note where Jase couldn't miss it. He was gasping for air, his lungs burning as if the building were on fire and he'd been inhaling thick smoke. He turned.

No.

Urich had moved. God, was that the armchair he'd been in before, or was it the other one — the one nearest Martoni? Bates almost screamed. He walked slowly to the entrance, a display of courage to hold back the horror
. Discipline
, he thought.
Your imagination's running wild. Too much to drink.

The doors opened on their own, with a sound like fingernails screeching down a blackboard. Bates faced the dark night, not even daring to look at what might be lurking right behind him.

He went down the steps, shoulders straight, a soldier on parade. He walked towards his car. The doors closed.

Wind. Just the wind.

Glenn got in and grabbed for his keys, but they slipped through his hand and landed in the puddle of liquor on the floor mat. He found them after a few panicky seconds and stepped on the gas pedal, still not able to look up. The car started.

He spun away, narrowly missing a tree. Branches clawed at the windshield like bony arms. Bates roared down the road, tires squealing. He looked in the rear view mirror, but he couldn't see the funeral parlor at all.

Because the porch light was off.

Hiram was snoring again.

Louise, unable to sleep, rolled over. She tugged her numb legs after her. The bed was piled high with blankets and quilts, yet it was still cold. She opened her eyes.

Sweet William stood before her. He seemed to be hanging in the moonlight, his body nearly transparent. Louise gaped, goosebumps marching up her arms. He drifted closer to dangle, suspended, near the foot of her bed. He was both there and not there.

He smiled, his lips drawing back slowly to expose discolored, rotting teeth. Louise could smell the reek of corruption on his breath. She grabbed her Bible from the nightstand, moaning, and began to pray. She begged for faith, prayed that she would prove capable of believing in the power of prayer.

"Touch me," William said. "Touch me again. Please."

"Begone, spirit," Louise whispered. "You are not welcome here."

The apparition vanished, as if it had never existed. But Louise Polson wept. She knew it had, and also that it was bound to return.

Timmy Baxter decided that his mother was right about those darned horror comics. They hadn't seemed to bother his sister much, but he'd read one just before turning out the lights and now he couldn't fall asleep. He told himself how silly it was, that it was his own fault and he oughta know better.

But he was still afraid of the closet.

Timmy eased one eye open a crack and took a look at it. The door was closed, but he just knew that the closet was full of monsters. It seemed to be staring right back at him, toying with the idea of setting those monsters loose. Letting them all rush out with a huge growl to tear him limb from limb. It was up to the closet to decide. The closet held the power.

He shut his eyes and pulled the blankets over his head. His father had told him that monsters couldn't chew through sheets and blankets, but he'd never believed that. Monsters were different. They didn't have to obey rules like people. Monsters did whatever they wanted, pretty much, and hardly anybody knew how to stop them. You really had to read a bunch of stuff, and work at remembering it, if you were gonna fight one. Timmy knew all about those kinds of things. He'd had to learn in self-defense. He was scared of vampires and monsters.

Of that dang closet, too.

He tried to imagine something pleasant: Cotton candy, Monday, the county fair. Pinball machines, video games and kids he liked. Going bowling. Catching a matinee at the theater down the block. Horses, kittens, ice cream —

The boy sat up instantly, terrified, already beginning to stream with perspiration. He faced the closet. Steeled himself…

There came a tapping at his window.

Timmy Baxter curled in upon himself like a snail. Mr. Rourke had promised this wasn't gonna happen. There weren't any such things, at least not up here in these mountains.
Badness, go away. Get lost.

Tapping.

He opened his eyes and turned, clutching at the blankets. It was a dead man, wearing tattered old clothes like a hobo. He had sick-looking grey skin and keen, animal eyes. The man touched Timmy's mind — invaded, all slimy and gooey. Things got fuzzy. The boy shut his eyes again. He wished for morning sunshine/Mom/breakfast smells to prove this was a nightmare
[got to check and see for sure, you can do it]
and then he peeked.

It was peering into the window, standing only a few feet away from his bed.

A vamper.

The worst had happened. The sight was chilling, yet less scary than it should have been, probably because there were no surprises. Everything was just as he'd imagined it, down to the last detail. It looked familiar, like he'd actually been through this before or had seen it in some movie. As if an image had been yanked from his head to freak him out, only the copy wound up a little too perfect.

The vamper got into his brain. He spoke without talking, but it was impossible to keep from listening. This was the voice of a big snake, a thin, hissing moan; like a tiny fart, or maybe stale air leaking from a punctured tire.

Please let me in, the man said sweetly. Open the window. I won't hurt you, little boy.

"No," Timmy fired back. "Get away from here!"

Then come out and play with me, Timmy. I would really like that, if you'd come out and play. We'd have fun together.

"No, vamper. You can't fool me!"

The man's clothing flapped and fluttered in the light breeze. Timmy could practically see right through him; he was so thin, so empty...So thirsty.

The comics said a vamper couldn't just enter a home. Not unless somebody gave it the okay and opened the door. Well, then? Timmy's life-long curiosity about such things began to dilute his terror. He flipped the covers to the side, leaned forward and pressed his face against the windowpane. The man drooled. His eyes flared red as hot coals and he floated closer to the boy. Their faces met at the window, separated by less than an inch of wire mesh and glass. Timmy dared to meet those terrible eyes. The vamper's pale, blue lips slowly parted; drew back in a grotesque imitation of a smile, exposing long, vulpine front teeth.

Vampers, the comics said, could hypnotize people and get them to do things they wouldn't normally do
[like let them in]
. The wraith snarled, showing still more of its curved, yellow fangs.

Open this window, it barked. Now!

Timmy shook his head. He wished he had a cross, something to defend himself with. But this was crazy; he had to be dreaming, having one real doozy of a nightmare. He tried to yell for his mother. His body refused to obey the command.

See? That proves this is just a dream
[or that you're getting hypnotized, dummy. You know what that means!]

"Go away," Timmy croaked. The words emerged in a hoarse whisper that sounded foreign to him. Like someone else was talking, somebody funny in the head.

Hey, Timmy, come with us. This is all so different. I think it's really fun.

Julie? But that didn't make any sense. His sister was sleeping just around the corner, and she sure wasn't dead. She couldn't be one of them, a vamper. Naw, it was just trying to fool him again. Switching to a different sales pitch.

Buzz off
, Timmy thought.
I ain't gonna go for it. Never in a million years.

The hollow, evil man drifted away, carried along by the wind. He shot Timmy one last, hungry look. Just as he hit the tree line and was almost out of sight, he reached for something. Something that reached back.

A white arm.

Another vamper, Timmy gasped. A lady one, since the hair was so long.

This was nuts. Bananas.

But there they were, the two of them. Off in the distance, sliding away into the dark woods; clasping hands like high school lovers on the way home from a date. The boy shook his head, stunned. He did his best to study the other one, the lady, even though she was awful far away. It was real dark, too dark to be sure of anything, but Timmy saw enough.

He forgot all about the monsters in the closet, his horror comics, even the shock of confronting the vamper. His whole body jumped as if he'd been electrocuted. Hair rose, palms went damp. His spine turned to ice. The second one, the vamper with the long hair.

She looked a lot like Julie.

Eight years old, but wiser than most, Timmy did the hardest thing he'd ever done in his whole life. He gathered his courage, which took a little while, and swung his feet around. He set them down on the cold floor of the camper and got out of bed. Feeling like a helpless baby, Timmy swallowed and crept down the hall. He tip-toed past the ominous closet to the edge of his sister's bunk.

Julie was there. He could hear her breathing.

Timmy returned to his own bed. He climbed in and buried himself under the blankets. Morning would come, and he would wake up and know for a fact that it had all been make believe. Just a sicko nightmare from reading those stupid magazines. Nothing more, just another dream.

Like the one about the closet.

Still, his feet felt cold. He had really gotten up to check on Julie. But so what? That didn't mean anything, except that he'd been awake near the end. There was no way to prove it had happened, no evidence. It sure wasn't worth trying to explain this to Mom, and she would probably never believe him anyway.

Besides, he didn't want it to be real.

Rourke tossed and turned fitfully, unable to find a comfortable position on Maggie's couch. He was too restless to sleep. Monday, napping nearby, offered a small, sympathetic whine. Peter massaged his aching temples. He had begged his talent to shut down, but this was a night filled with old ghosts and pleading voices. Rourke was unwilling to let go to grief and afraid to extend his senses. He fought against skulling, but some leaked in despite his efforts; enough to shake him to the core. He no longer believed in a rational, ordered universe.

How the fuck do you explain this to someone?
That some walking nightmare was loose in the world, and reality was being distorted to suit its whims. It would soon seek him out. It would have to.
How do I convince someone, and then what would we do about it?

Bare toes on carpet, the smell of perfume. He could just make out her shape, there in the doorway, all rounded flesh and pale blue lace.

"Peter, are you asleep?"

"No."

She came to him. Maggie's presence muted most of the shrill static in his throbbing head; submerged it in more tactile sensations. Her soft breasts pressed against his forearm as she knelt beside the couch.

"Just a minute," she whispered. She went back and closed the bedroom and hall doors, anticipating his need. She enfolded him, stroked his face and kissed him. Rourke's little boy, always pressured to achieve and endure, pushed the grown man aside. Said in a tiny, clear voice: I
hurt.

He felt himself beginning to cry for the first time in many years. The release was wonderful. Maggie held him, urging him on until sorrow had run its course. She shifted her body and lay beside him on the couch.

Maggie caressed and awakened him, tugged at his trousers; hitched up her nightgown and placed them together. Quiet murmurs, quickening flesh. She locked one leg above him and held on like a woman drowning, her lips moving against his neck. Her body was hungry, damp and willing. When he finally let go and poured himself into her, she said
ahhh
softly, happy to absorb what she could of his pain. When Rourke and Maggie at last released each other, they noticed that Monday had begun to snore. They giggled like small children at the little wheezing noises he made.