Horror Show

by Greg Kihn

  Roberta didn’t answer right away. She let Clint ponder the situation before speaking.

  “Landis is a very unhappy man. His career is over, he has nothing left except that crumbling house, and he’s the only one who knows what’s happening. I’m sure he’s kept track over the years. I’m not saying he killed them … I’m not sure what I’m saying. All I can tell you is, I think he knows the truth, and I think he’s hiding something.”

  The office was still. It was a weekday afternoon. The staff only came in three days a week to do the layout and sell the advertising. The rest of the time they worked at home. Roberta preferred it that way. She liked it quiet. It allowed her to think. In this age of computers, fax machines, and fiber-optic telephone communication, her people could work at home all they wanted. That left her with a quiet office most of the time, until a deadline loomed.

  Clint broke the silence.

  “Shit. You knew all that?”

  Roberta nodded.

  “But you still let me go out and dig like a gopher?”

  She smiled, tapped her pencil on her desk again, and pointed it at Clint. “You’re my best writer. I think this story will be the biggest thing the magazine’s ever done, I want a first-rate job, an honest job.”

  “But, if you knew all along …”

  “I detest Landis Woodley,” Roberta said sharply. “I think he’s scum, and I could never be objective about this story, even though I’ve been sitting on it for years. I’ve been waiting for someone like you to come along and pick up the pieces. Me write the story? No, Clint, this one’s yours. I want it done right.”

  “I wonder if we’ll ever find out the truth,” Clint wondered aloud. “It’s been a long time.”

  “Yeah. Either way, we’ll know soon.”

  “Why?” Clint asked.

  Roberta’s expression turned hard. It was a practiced move. Her face clouded over like a stormy sky. “Didn’t you learn anything?”

  “Well, I—”

  “All the murders, deaths, whatever you want to call them, occurred in October–November. Look at the calendar. It’s the end of November now.”

  “So?”

  “So, Landis is the last one left.”

  Clint closed his eyes. “Oh, I see. If it is a curse, and he’s the last one, maybe it’ll come for him, but if he’s behind it, maybe nothing will happen. Sounds like the plot of one of his movies.”

  “And now, Landis Woodley is the last one. Are you sure you want to go back now?”

  Clint smiled and nodded. “Are you kiddin’? I love this kind of stuff. It’s cool, it’s scary, and that’s my bag.” He glanced at his watch. “I gotta get workin’. I’ll let you know, okay?”

  She threw a folder that had been on her desk into his lap.

  “Newspaper photocopies. Nineteen-fifty-seven. Read ’em.”

  He stood up and smiled.

  “Be careful,” she reminded him.

  He went back to the desk that she let him use in the office and began to scan the photocopies of newspapers for October–November 1957.

  He found the first mention of Landis Woodley for November 1, 1957. It was an account of his Halloween party in the gossip column. There had been some noise complaints, parking problems, a few angry neighbors, that kind of thing. It must have been quite a bash, he thought. There was a published guest list. He scanned it, jotting down the names.

  Reading on, he came across a curious article. A few days after the party, Devila, the horror show hostess, blew her brains out on TV. He remembered the name. She had been a guest of Woodley’s. Coincidence? Clint was beginning to suspect that there were no coincidences. He dug farther.

  Twenty minutes later he came across an account of the disappearance of Albert Beaumond, the celebrated Satanist. Thora Beaumond was quoted as saying her father was still alive somewhere, probably suffering from amnesia.

  He went back to the guest list.

  Albert Beaumond was Devila’s date at the party! More coincidences?

  Clint decided to find Thora Beaumond and talk to her.

  Former Lieutenant, now retired Captain Garth Prease, found Clint first. As soon as Prease got word that someone was sniffing around looking for the former Thora Beaumond, now Mrs. Thora Beaumond-Prease, he left his home and came down to confront the stranger. He was surprised to find a man as young as Clint.

  “Sir, I need some information about Albert Beaumond.”

  “That’s ancient history,” Garth said brusquely. “I don’t see—”

  “I’m a journalist. I’m working on a story about Landis Woodley.”

  “Woodley? That old rummy film guy?”

  “Yes, sir. You see, Albert Beaumond was Devila’s date for the Halloween party he gave in 1957. As you may recall, she committed suicide a few days later, at about the same time Albert disappeared.”

  Garth scratched his chin and looked around. “Let’s go in my office,” he said softly.

  As soon as the door closed he turned and said, “It’s taken me years to bury this Albert Beaumond thing, and I don’t want you dredging it up and upsetting my wife.”

  “Your wife? You married Beaumond’s daughter?”

  Garth nodded. “Yes, I … she needed help, we grew close, I married her a year later. I don’t see what any of this has to do with Landis Woodley.”

  “I’m looking for a possible connection between Woodley’s party, Devila’s suicide, and Beaumond’s disappearance.”

  Garth went behind the desk and sat down, motioning for Clint to do the same. “That was a long time ago. Devila was a freak, Albert Beaumond was a Satanist. They were like two peas in a pod. Thora was lucky to get out when she did.”

  Clint made a note of that and continued. “I read about Mr. Beaumond in the newspapers. He was quite a controversial person.”

  “He was a devil worshiper, for God’s sake!”

  Clint pulled out his pad and began to write.

  “You never found him?”

  “No.”

  “Not even a clue?”

  Garth eyed Clint suspiciously. His upper face narrowed, producing a squint that locked his eyes in shadow. “Who did you say you were with?”

  “Bachman Publications,” Clint replied, using the name of Monster Magazine’s parent company because it sounded a hell of a lot better.

  “Hmm. Okay. Well, there was one thing.”

  “Yes?”

  Garth cleared his throat, pausing.

  “They found a body a few days later. It fit Beaumond’s description to a tee, even the clothes. I got a note from the medical examiner and it seemed like a match. That night I went out to Thora’s house and called the assistant coroner to meet us down at the morgue so she could identify him.

  “When we got there, the body was gone. It must have happened earlier that night. The night watchman got drunk, fell asleep, and somebody made off with the body. Can you believe that? What kind of ghoul would do such a thing?”

  “They stole the body?”

  “Somebody did. It just didn’t get up and walk out of there on its own.”

  “Sick,” Clint said succinctly. Then, he had a thought. The connection came together so fast in his mind that he scarcely had time to consider the ramifications before he spoke again. Landis Woodley had been filming in that same morgue the night before!

  “Were you aware that Landis Woodley was shooting a movie in the morgue that week?” he asked.

  “No,” Garth replied.

  “Well, there’s a connection between Devila and Albert Beaumond, that would be Woodley’s party, and between Landis Woodley and the morgue.”

  Garth shook his head. “This case is closed, Mr. ahh—”

  “Stockbern.”

  “Yeah, Stockbern, let’s just leave it at that. This thing happened forty years ago. I have no further comment.”

  He stood up and shook Clint’s hand.

  “Are you a Christian, Mr. Stockbern?” Prease asked as they stepped toward the door.

>   “Well, yeah, I guess so.”

  Prease lowered his voice. “Albert Beaumond worshiped the devil. He consorted with other deviants. That doesn’t surprise me. He could have met his end in any one of a number of ways. When you deal with the unclean, you’re liable to get your hands dirty.”

  Prease opened the door. “Let it be, Mr. Stockbern.”

  26

  The gardener’s house was nothing more than a one-room hovel above the garage. Emil, José’s feebleminded son, lived there alone.

  After his father had died, he learned to fend for himself and did pretty well, all things considered.

  Mr. Woodley was always there to help him, but during the last seven years he had come to rely less and less on the old man.

  He didn’t like the big house and avoided going in there unless it was completely necessary. But now it was. He was hungry. Yesterday he’d opened his last can of Spam, and he was even out of the dog food he’d eaten on more than one occasion. He knew people weren’t supposed to eat that stuff, but it wasn’t that bad, just a little gelatinous. Mr. Woodley had made a mistake once, when he was drunk, and bought a whole case of the stuff thinking it was budget-priced beef stew.

  The market man knew Landis Woodley didn’t have a dog, but he didn’t say anything. Landis shuffled around the store, absently loading his basket, and paid cash, usually in the form of rolled-up nickels and dimes.

  Whenever Emil went alone, the market man was always nice to him, but still counted the money carefully.

  Emil hadn’t been to the store in two weeks. All the food was gone, and Mr. Woodley hadn’t called him. He waited until after when dinner should have been and went over to the big house.

  The kitchen door was unlocked, so he went in.

  Mr. Woodley was asleep sitting up at the kitchen table, his head cradled in his arms, making grunting sounds.

  Emil was tempted to wake him. His stomach was grumbling, but he was afraid. The old man was mean when he first woke up. Emil slid across the room toward the cabinets. Maybe some tuna fish …

  Landis stirred. Emil froze.

  “Mr. Woodley?” His voice trembled whenever he addressed his master. “Mr. Woodley, I’m hungry. Can I have some food?”

  There was no response. Emil took a tentative step closer.

  “My tummy hurts, Mr. Woodley.”

  Woodley’s head stayed down, his breathing slow and labored.

  The old man drooled onto the Formica tabletop. Emil traced the slender thread from his lip to the counter. An empty bottle of whiskey sat near, as still as fossilized amber in the slanting rays of the afternoon sun. Emil knew what that meant.

  He took a can of Vienna sausages and left.

  The kitchen door clicked shut.

  Landis snorted and lifted his head. Had someone been there?

  Then he smelled it; something was burning.

  “Shit,” he muttered. “S’fire.”

  He squinted around the room. His head was clearing as the frail adrenaline pump inside him pushed a measure of consciousness through his smoky brain. He sat up straighter and sniffed the air. It was coming, he thought, from the living room. He looked in that direction.

  Something sailed through.

  A tiny flying saucer flew into the room through the open doorway and landed on the kitchen floor in front of him. It was on fire. He was too stunned to move.

  “What the hell—”

  The burning saucer began to curl up at the edges. The smoke had a familiar smell.

  It’s paper, he thought. The goddamn thing’s paper. Wait a second, just hold everything. A flood of fear rushed into his heart as the recognition hit him.

  It was two paper plates glued together, soaked in gasoline and set on fire.

  That was Buzzy Haller’s ending for Attack of the Haunted Saucer. Who would pull a trick like this on him? His heart began galloping in his chest. No. It couldn’t be. Buzzy was dead, twelve months in the ground.

  Landis watched the saucer burn and realized that it was scorching his linoleum floor. Suddenly he jumped up out of his chair and began to stamp out the fire. The burning plates sent large flakes of gray ash toward the kitchen ceiling. Landis ground his foot into the smoldering ruins of the plates and wanted to scream, but something was wrong.

  His arms felt heavy.

  “Who the fuck’s in there?” he shouted angrily. “This ain’t funny!”

  He tasted an acidic dot of fear on the tip of his tongue and felt a tightness grip his chest. I’m hallucinating, he thought. I’m losing my marbles. This can’t be happening.

  Landis lurched forward. Somebody was going to pay for this bullshit. Who? The kid reporter? Emil? Who the hell else was around?

  “Okay, joke’s over. Come on out!” he growled.

  He put one foot in front of the other, making his way toward the living room. His heart was galloping in his chest, and it was beginning to hurt when he breathed.

  A few gasps and a few more steps and he was in the doorway, on the threshold of the living room. He steadied himself and extended both arms against the wooden molding.

  The room was in deep shadow. Motes of dust hung suspended in the air, moving in their own currents. Landis fought to regain his breath. He gulped air like a tired swimmer and willed his heart to slow down.

  What happened next nearly killed him.

  In his weakened condition he was vulnerable, and that angered him. It angered him because he couldn’t bull his way into the room and tear it apart until he found the perpetrator of this cruel hoax and kick his ass.

  His chest hurt.

  From the shadow directly in front of him, another paper plate flew out, tossed with uncanny accuracy. He saw it streaking toward him like a white blur and he held his breath. The shock his system went through at that moment took Landis Woodley to the brink of death. His heart was on the verge of bursting. The saucer hit him squarely in the chest and bounced off. “Huh!” he gasped.

  Landis yelped. There was no disguising the terror now. It was burning in him just as the plate was burning on the floor at his feet.

  “Oh Jesus,” he cried. “Oh, sweet Jesus!”

  He took his hands off the doorjamb and gripped his chest. The lack of support propelled him sideways until he was leaning against the hinges, barely able to maintain his footing and balance.

  I’m having a heart attack, he thought. I’m hallucinating while my brain is starving for oxygen. I gotta calm down, try not to panic.

  The two paper plates were burning nicely, sending a thin plume of smoke into the dusty air. Landis closed his eyes and opened them again.

  Somebody was trying to kill him. Somebody was trying to scare him to death so he’d have a heart attack and drop dead on the living room floor. As that thought presented itself, he grasped at it like a lifeline to sanity. Of course, it was the only answer.

  The idea pissed him off and he decided right then and there not to die, but live to spit in whoever’s eye.

  “It won’t work,” he gasped. “You can’t kill me. I’m too mean to die.”

  The room was silent.

  “All right! The party’s over! Come on out here and let me see you, you sadistic son of a bitch!”

  The room seemed to grow even more quiet. Unnaturally quiet, as if he’d stepped outside on a snow-blanketed night. Landis felt the hair rise on the back of his neck. Something was terribly wrong here.

  Then he felt a presence step into the room. It was the cold, unyielding presence of death.

  Clint listened to the tape of the Landis Woodley interview. The sky over LA was going from blue to violet. One good thing about smog, thought Clint. It made for some spectacular sunsets. He could tell that tonight’s would be no exception.

  “Drawer sixty-six,” the voice on the tape said. “Get your kicks on Route 66.”

  All he had to do was find out what body was in drawer number sixty-six on November 5, 1957, the night of the shoot, and November 6, 1957, the night of the theft. Easy, right? />
  Clint called the morgue but found, to his dismay, that they destroyed their records every ten years. Great, thought Clint. That makes all kinds of sense. Keep records, throw them away. Logical.

  He listened to the tape all the way through and then, at the end, he heard the sound that had scared him so badly when he was at the house.

  It was the moan.

  Hearing it now, on tape, made his hair stand on end. Jesus, what was that thing?

  He immediately thought of Landis Woodley’s famous hoaxes. Could this be one of them? Like the bats, the owls, and the rest of that creepy shit? It was hard to say. There was something alien about that moan, something genuinely tortured. It came across on the tape like a cold spot in a haunted house. The amazing thing was that Clint had forgotten all about it until now, as if his brain had erased the memory.

  Jesus, he thought, what was that thing?

  He rewound and played it several times. Something inside told Clint that the moan was not a fake; it was real. Something was under the house, and it sounded piteous.

  His mind searched for all the logical answers first, of course. Maybe it was a raccoon, caught in a trap. A cat, maybe a dog, and it was howling for its life. He’d heard cats fight outside his window, heard the eerie mating cries in the night. They rose in a crescendo of pain and desire that was most definitely subhuman. This sound was nothing like that.

  There was a tortured hysteria to it, as if whatever it was were trying to communicate some terrible, unknowable pain. The range was almost human, he decided, yet utterly deranged. It almost seemed like it was trying to form words.

  No, that’s nuts, Clint reasoned. It was probably one of the old man’s animals. A bat or an owl or a fuckin’ iguana. How should I know? Best to forget all about it. I have bigger fish to fry. There’s a mystery to unwind. No time for the creepy crawlies now.

  Clint concentrated on his notes, the jumble of facts and the patterns that emerged. The people who died were either strangled or committed suicide. That was an odd combination. What was troubling these people? Was the memory of the Cadaver shoot that horrible? It didn’t seem likely to Clint.

  He looked up at the ceiling, as he often did when searching for answers. Sometimes they were written up there like graffiti. The thought occurred to him that maybe those people feared the curse so much that they’d rather kill themselves before it got them.