by Greg Kihn
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.
About the Author
NBC called Greg Kihn “Rock’s True Renaissance Man.” His career stretches from the dawn of punk and indie rock to the discos of the 1980s to the glory days of MTV. As a pioneer with the legendary Beserkley Records, he helped write the book on revolutionary West Coast rock ’n’ roll.
In the 1990s Greg turned hi
s attention to writing fiction. He published four novels and a handful of short stories in various anthologies, and edited a compilation of original fiction by famous musicians. Horror Show was nominated for the Bram Stoker Award for Best First Novel.
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1996 by Greg Kihn
Cover design by Mauricio Díaz
ISBN: 978-1-5040-1862-3
This edition published in 2015 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.
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