The Midnight Hour

by Neil Davies

  Edward licked his fingers appreciatively.

  “There’s nothing quite like virgin flesh,” he said, relaxing back against a suitably angled gravestone, his appetite almost fully sated. “Nothing fills you up quite so well.”

  The other ghouls, many still eating, mumbled their agreement.

  Edward smiled. The world certainly looked a better place on a full stomach. He even found himself considering forgiveness for the selfish vampire who had so nearly robbed them all of a taste of virginity.

  “Ah yes,” he said, pleased with Undeath generally. “There’s nothing quite like…”

  A chewing ghoul broke wind loudly and the assembly giggled like schoolboys. Edward laughed as the guilty ghoul apologised.

  “Never mind,” he said. “Stuart Suckm always did have a knack for interrupting!”

  He tore another finger from the corpse and chewed contentedly.

  DEATH BY POPCORN

  Four girls in two weeks. Tortured. Mutilated. Murdered!

  Crystal Roberts tore her eyes away from the headline and stuffed the paper into the black trash bag she dragged behind her. The thought of a killer prowling around her neighbourhood was frightening, so she tried her best not to think about it.

  She reached under the flipped-up cinema seat on her left but couldn’t reach the discarded coca-cola can. She sighed, lay down flat on her stomach and edged under the seat. She reached again, grabbed the can, and banged her head on the underside of the seat as she straightened up.

  “Shit!”

  “Language Crystal. It’s just as well there are no customers about.”

  She looked over her shoulder at the man who stood at the end of the aisle. Rupert Jenkins, the manager of this small, local cinema. He was tall, fat and permanently sweaty, with a lustful leer in his eyes and, according to some of the girls, fast and groping hands. Not that he’d tried anything with her yet, but she was suddenly very aware of how short the skirt of her uniform was, and the fact that, lying on the ground as she had been, he had probably got quite a view.

  In two weeks she would be 18. She worried that Mr Jenkins would suddenly become more than just a drooling onlooker. He was surprisingly puritan in some ways, disgustingly perverse in others.

  She shifted her position, drew her legs in under her, pulled the skirt down as far as it would go, which was not far, and checked the zipper that ran the length of the top. She had heard that Mr Jenkins had designed the uniform himself.

  “Sorry Mr Jenkins.”

  “Well, we’ll forget it this time Crystal.” His eyes flickered to her breasts, the cleavage prominent above the low V of the uniform top. “Now, the reason I came here was to tell you the others have all left. I’m just about to lock up. Will you be long?”

  Everyone left? Including Richard from the concessions stand? She had hoped that tonight he would wait for her, tonight he would ask her out. She had hoped that for the past two months or so, ever since he started work there. Richard. Tall, slim, muscular, and four years older than her. Still, she hoped.

  “No Mr Jenkins. Just one more aisle after this, then I’m done cleaning.”

  “Good, well…” He took one more look at her breasts, her thighs, her young firm body. “I’ll be in the main foyer when you’re done.”

  She watched as he walked away, waiting until he was out of the doorway before turning and crawling along the aisle once more, gathering the trash left behind by the evening’s customers, grumbling to herself as she went.

  “17 years old. Still living at home with my parents. No boyfriend. Got a crush on a guy four years older than me who hardly knows I exist. Working for an old letch in a dead-end job… Why do I bother?”

  She knew why, of course. She needed money to get away from this small town, to go to college in New York, or Los Angeles, or any big place. Anywhere but small town Ravensville, CA. There weren’t many places in town that an unskilled 17 year old could get money. Not legitimately anyway.

  She stuffed the last of the trash into the black sack and pushed herself to her feet. She reached up to the small band holding her ponytail in place and dragged it out. Black hair, long and straight, fell over her shoulders as she shook it out. It felt good to let it loose. She only wore it in a ponytail for work.

  There was a dull thump from over by the door, outside in the foyer. It startled her. Her hand flew to her chest as if to calm the beating of her heart.

  “I’m coming Mr Jenkins,” she called, turning to look towards the exit at the back of the cinema. There was no sign of the manager, but he was obviously getting impatient. Banging things about.

  I’d better hurry up before he locks me in!

  She tied a knot in the sack and made to carry it. Too heavy. Instead she dragged it behind her as she trudged up the centre aisle.

  Another thump. This time with a wet, squashy aftersound.

  “Ok, ok. I’m coming.”

  What was he doing out there? Beating up on abandoned half full drink cartons? Whatever he was doing it sounded like he was getting pissed.

  She quickened her pace, still dragging the sack.

  The foyer was dark when she pushed her way into it. The only light came from two drinks machines against the far wall and the half open door of the office behind the main desk.

  She sighed. She knew he was an impatient man but he had never switched the lights off on her before.

  “Mr Jenkins? I’ve finished now.” There was no answer. “Mr Jenkins?”

  She left the black sack of trash by the desk and made her way cautiously through the dark towards the office.

  Is he deaf? Why doesn’t he answer me?

  “Mr Jenkins?”

  Her foot slipped from under her, sliding in something wet on the floor. She fell heavily, sharp pain shooting up her spine. She gritted her teeth, didn’t want to cry out. Whatever game Jenkins was playing she didn’t want to give him anything to laugh about.

  As she waited for the sudden pain to ease she slid her heel back and forth. Something very wet on the floor. Had he spilt something while tidying up? A drink? Maybe that was the noise she heard.

  She could see little in the partial light but could vaguely make out a darkness around her foot. She lifted her leg and could see strands of whatever it was stretching with her for a moment before snapping back. Something thick and sticky.

  The black trailed away, snaking towards the office door. As if something was dragged, something wet and oozing. Her stomach turned, twisted. It almost had the look of blood about it, thick and black/red where it passed close to the drinks machines and their light. But it couldn’t be blood. How could there be blood on the foyer floor? Jenkins had spilt something, or broken something, dumped it in a sack and then dragged the sack to the office, not realising he was leaving a trail.

  That made more sense to her, but did little to calm her tumbling stomach or racing heartbeat.

  She pulled herself to her feet with the help of the desk and, stepping carefully over the dark mess on the floor, approached the office door. Her right foot stuck with each step and made a clicking sound as she pulled it free.

  “Mr Jenkins? Are you in there?” She reached the half open door and pushed it gently. It swung inwards for a few inches and then abruptly stopped, as if it hit something. “Don’t kid around Mr Jenkins. I’m ready to go home now.”

  She leaned into the room, peering around the door to see what the obstruction was.

  And screamed.

  Mr Jenkins lay on the floor, the door against his shoulder, his face obscured by a mask of blood and tissue that had oozed from his skull, a skull that was crushed, little more than a hole filled with broken bone and matted hair.

  Crystal turned away from the office, doubled over, gagging and spluttering. She fought down the urge to vomit but could do nothing about the tears that stung her eyes or the shaking that convulsed her body.

  That was the noise, she realised. The noise she had heard. Mr Jenkins’ head being crushed.


  And then the second revelation, one so obvious she was disgusted with herself for not realising it immediately. Jenkins couldn’t have done this to himself and then dragged himself to the office. Somebody else was involved.

  Someone had murdered Mr Jenkins.

  Someone who was probably still in the cinema!

  A noise from inside the office. A shuffling.

  She straightened up, stepped back further into the foyer just as the man appeared in the office doorway.

  He was dressed in black and wore some kind of Halloween mask, a clown she thought. She didn’t wait to take a closer look but turned, slipping slightly on the blood streaked floor, and ran for the front doors. She knew they were closed, but perhaps they weren’t locked!

  She could hear the man behind her, heavy footsteps, running, getting louder, closer.

  Who was he? What was happening?

  She remembered the newspaper headline. Four girls in two weeks.

  Oh my God! It’s him. It’s the killer!

  She ran harder, pumping her arms back and forth, forcing her legs, her aching unfit muscles, to work faster.

  She could hear his breathing now, snorting, animal-like breathing. He must be almost upon her.

  She cried out in fear, in anger. How dare this happen to her! She wasn’t even 18 yet. She was too young to die!

  She didn’t have time to stop. She ran into the door, slamming into it with her forearms, her knees. She felt it give, push outwards, as her momentum smashed her against the thick wood panelling.

  She almost laughed. It was going to open. She was going to escape.

  The door stuck with only the slightest of gaps showing. Surprised, she could not stop herself as her head collided, a sickening crack seeming to echo through the dark foyer.

  She staggered backwards, dizzy, puzzled, disoriented.

  The door was indeed unlocked, but she saw the top bolt drawn closed. The force of her impact had loosened it, pulled some screws from the fitting, but it had held.

  The bastard had held!

  She turned, staggering, the darkness before her eyes flashing with pain, and he was on her. His weight, the strangely soft feel of his black clothes, the manic grinning of the mask.

  She saw a gloved fist raised, arcing in.

  Then nothing.

  The pounding in her head was her first indication that she was still alive.

  If I’d died then surely the pain would have stopped?

  It seemed a strange, almost flippant thought given the circumstances, but nothing seemed very rational at the moment. And what exactly were her circumstances?

  She struggled to open her eyes, slowly. For a moment she thought she was blind and a tight knot of panic seemed to settle in her chest. Then she recognised her surroundings. The cinema. The auditorium. The almost pitch blackness broken by the vague shapes of the seats, the aisles. And she was on the small stage in front of the screen.

  She seemed unharmed. Her uniform was ruffled but otherwise intact and in place. Other than the pain in her head and some scrapes and bruises from the front door she was not hurt. Whoever had attacked her had done nothing else to her… yet!

  She remembered the body of Mr Jackson, lying in his office. She knew what this man was capable of. If she was still alive it was because he had plans for her.

  She began to cry, deep sobs sending shudders through her body.

  “Ah, don’t cry Crystal.” The voice was deep, strange somehow. “Not yet. There’ll be plenty of time for that later. I haven’t even started yet.”

  Trying to ignore the pain, she lifted her head towards the source of the voice.

  She could see no one in the dark but the voice had seemed to come from the back of the auditorium.

  “Nice to have you back with us Crystal.”

  “How do you know my name?” Her voice sounded harsh, croaky. She coughed, trying to clear it a little.

  “I know a lot about you Crystal, including the kind of boys you like. That’s why I brought someone to keep you company.”

  Up in the projection booth the projector whirred into action, shooting blinding light down onto the screen, into Crystal’s eyes. She turned her head aside, not wanting to completely shut her eyes, not wanting to be that helpless, and saw the ‘company’ the voice had spoken of.

  “Richard!” she gasped.

  Richard from the concessions stand. Tall, handsome Richard. Bound and gagged and barely conscious on the stage floor less than four feet from her.

  “Go to him Crystal. Untie him by all means. But be sure to tell him about Mr Jackson. Be sure to tell him I’m serious when I say I will kill you if he tries anything.”

  She believed him. There was a harsh matter-of-factness in the voice that convinced her.

  She scrambled across the stage, not daring to stand up. Her legs felt too insubstantial for that. Too shaky. Richard raised his head slightly as she reached him. She was relieved to see no blood, no signs of major injuries.

  “Richard, did you hear him?”

  He nodded slightly.

  “He means it Richard. Please, don’t try anything. Don’t run. If you do he’ll kill me, and then he’ll kill you.” She pulled at his ropes, trying to untie them. Her voice trembled slightly. Her fingers fumbled. “We’ll have to do as he says, at least for now.”

  She dropped her voice to a whisper as she finally got the knot at his wrists undone.

  “If we just play this cool we might get a chance to escape later.”

  Richard nodded again.

  She wondered why he didn’t speak, but then she saw the strange look in his eyes. Fear? Panic? Shock? She didn’t know what it was, only that it was unlike anything she had seen before, and it was unnerving.

  “Well done Crystal.” She jumped slightly as the voice spoke again. She had been drawn into that intense look in Richard’s eyes, almost mesmerised, and for a moment she had forgotten about the killer in the projection booth.

  If he was still there!

  She looked round. She felt the voice sounded closer, clearer somehow. As if he had moved down into the main auditorium.

  The light from the projector still blinded her if she looked up too far, but he had loaded no film. Nothing but white light shone on the screen.

  It was as if he read her mind.

  “Sorry there’s no film showing tonight Crystal. But you see, you two will provide all the entertainment I need.”

  She shuddered at that. She was not sure exactly what he meant, but she suspected it would not be good for her. Before Mr Jackson, all this killer’s victims had been young women. She had no doubt, now, that this was the same killer. How many killers could one small town have?

  She was uncomfortably aware that she fit the profile for his next victim.

  “Richard!”

  As the disembodied voice shouted his name, Richard looked around, into the dark of the auditorium. Crystal could not see his eyes, but she felt certain they still had that same creepy look in them. What must he have gone through before she woke up to get that look? What had this madman done to Richard before tying him up? Maybe after tying him up?

  She wanted to cry. Not for her, but for Richard. How could anyone hurt someone as sweet as Richard?

  “You, Richard, will play the part of the brutal interrogator. Think Spanish Inquisition. Think Nazi. Think Witchfinder General!”

  This guy is nuts!

  “Crystal.”

  She resolutely did not turn to look, but kept staring straight ahead, at the unmoving Richard.

  Whatever happens, Richard is here. He’ll find a way for us to get out of here. Just got to be patient.

  “You are the fragile, beautiful and innocent prisoner. You are the heretic, the resistance fighter. The witch!”

  She jumped as an enormous bang and clatter echoed around the dark. A snake-like coil of chains tumbled onto the stage, thrown from the darkness. They looked heavy. He must be close.

  “Your props. I’m a great believer in i
magination, but a few props can so help the presentation don’t you think?” There was the briefest of laughs before he continued. “Richard, be so good as to use those chains to tie Crystal’s hands behind her back would you? It’s quite easy to do. Believe me, I’ve done it before.”

  Hesitantly Richard stepped towards the chains.

  “Go on now. And make it nice and tight. If I don’t think they’re tight enough I’ll get angry. Neither of you want that!”

  Crystal felt as if she would be sick, her stomach churning, her whole body trembling. But she did not move as Richard slowly picked up the chains and walked towards her.

  She fought back burning tears as she straightened up onto her knees, sitting back on her heels, placing her hands behind her back, trying to make it easy for Richard. Poor Richard, forced to do this terrible thing. She felt the chains wrap around her wrists, pull tight. Wrap again. Pull again. She gasped and bit her lower lip as her skin was pinched between metal links. She didn’t want to cry out. That wouldn’t be fair on Richard. He was doing what he had to do.

  We’re both victims in this.

  “That’s good Richard.”

  That voice again. Deep, oily, somehow oozing perversion in a way a mere sound should not be able to do. It made her stomach spasm. It was all she could do not to vomit.

  “Now she’s all yours. She’s your prisoner. You can do anything you want.”

  There was that sick, frightening laughter in the voice again.

  He’s enjoying this! Trying to make Richard behave as he would. Poor Richard. I wish I could help.

  She tried to smile as Richard stepped back in front of her. It was shaky, unsure, but she wanted to show him that she understood how terrible this was for him. That she didn’t blame him for what he was having to do.

  He looked back at her with those same dead eyes she had seen earlier. Again, she wondered what was going through his mind. He must be as frightened as she was.

  He reached forward and began to tug down the front zipper of her uniform.

  “No!”

  The word escaped before she could control it, as automatic as the twist of her body that pulled his fingers from the metal tab.