Don't Read After Dark: Keep the lights on while reading these! (A McCray Horror Collection)

by McCray, Carolyn

  “Oh, man, that weed I bought last week was too strong. That’s the last time I buy grass from an Amway salesman,” the projectionist mumbled from behind him.

  “What did you say?” Simon said, reluctantly turning away from the window and his vacant seat that was now being occupied by Stacey in accounting. How the hell did she get an invite?

  “Nothing, man …” the projectionist’s eyes were glazed as they drifted toward the projector. “I just didn’t remember threading the film into the projector.” He dug in his dreadlocks, scratching his head. “You’re ready to rock and roll at the stroke of midnight.”

  “Good … good,” Simon murmured. The sooner this was over, the better. Then onward to the free drinks.

  The stoner opened the door to exit.

  “Where do you think you’re going?”

  Bob had better not be going out to smoke some more. This guy needed a clear head. Simon couldn’t afford for anything else to go wrong.

  “Home, man,” the projectionist gave a lopsided smile as he stepped into the hallway.

  “But … but …” Simon stuttered. Running forward, he grabbed the door, tugging it back open.

  “Your people wouldn’t go for double time after midnight. Have a blast.”

  Simon’s eyes darted around the projection room. Sure, he took film production in college, but that was on VHS. He knew nothing about the projector, with all the knobs and levers towering over him.

  “I can’t …”

  “Don’t blow a valve. It’s all automated. The timer is set for twelve o’clock, man. All you have to do is sit back and chill.”

  Chill. This stoner was telling him to chill? It wasn’t his freakin’ neck on the line. Simon felt his chest tighten.

  The projectionist patted Simon on the back. “Don’t have a coronary. Nothing can go wrong.”

  Was that supposed to reassure Simon?

  The door slammed shut, like the door on a crypt. Simon’s crypt. ’Cause if anything went wrong tonight, Amanda would bury him alive.

  Simon approached the projector, his legs heavy with dread. It was like walking toward his own execution. What if the stoner screwed up the timer and set it for noon instead of midnight? Seriously. The guy didn’t even remember threading the film. Simon searched the machine for something, anything, resembling a timer. He reached into the open panel on the side. The film snapped forward.

  “Shit!”

  Simon looked down at his finger. Blood oozed out of a gash. He searched the room for a towel or tissue. Figures—he wouldn’t find a tissue. Simon jammed his finger in his mouth to stop the bleeding. This is exactly why he had no business in this room.

  A soft, rhythmic murmur drifted across the room. Simon paused, listening. It sounded like a Gregorian chant. The kind he heard in church when he was a kid. Was another screening going on?

  A low moan came from behind Simon. He turned toward the projector, yanking his finger out of his mouth.

  “Who’s there? This room is off-limits.”

  * * *

  Derek led the way down a darkened hallway, Mitchell’s heavy breathing following close behind. The red glow of a camera shone overhead. Derek hoped these sick bastards were enjoying the show. The next TV they’d be watching would be behind bars.

  Jill’s phone beeped. “I still can’t get a signal.” None of them could.

  Figures. The Baxter brothers were thorough. Probably jammed the signal.

  “It was worth a try,” Mitchell said, sounding a bit halfhearted.

  Farther down the hall, Derek stopped, holding up his hand. Ahead, the walls were studded with alcoves. And not just any alcoves, but alcoves filled with life-size replicas of Frankenstein’s monster, The Mummy, The Thing, and The Fly.

  Derek kicked at Frankenstein with his foot, and took a step backward. His gun was aimed at Frankenstein’s head.

  Mitchell approached the creatures, fascinated. “Look at this collection!” The teen hesitantly smoothed his hand over the mummy’s bandages. “I had wet dreams that weren’t this good.” He stepped up to Frankenstein, poking at its chest. “Of course, if any of them come to life … good-bye ecstasy, hello nightmare.”

  Derek glared at Mitchell, raising a finger to his lips. Not because the kid’s yammering would give away their position. Please, the Baxters could probably see, hear, and smell everything that was happening. No, he just needed the kid to be quiet so he could think.

  “I thought we were looking for a way out of here,” Jill whispered, falling in step with Derek. “Where are you taking us?”

  “Toward the kitchen.” He hoped it was this way. If not, they’d have to circle around. And waste time that they, and Cecil, didn’t have. “I’d wager these prima donnas don’t take out their own garbage. There must be a servants’ entrance. And my bet is they didn’t spend as much money on security for those quarters.”

  “Holy Zonker!!” Mitchell squealed.

  Derek swung around. “Didn’t I tell you—?”

  Oh, shit. The monster mash that Mitchell had just been admiring had come to life—their movements jerky as they stalked down the hall. Beams of yellow light shot out of their eyes.

  “Oh my God!” Jill screamed.

  Their moans ground into Derek’s marrow. But not for long. Derek aimed at the mummy first, shooting it between the eyes. Its body hit the floor. Okay, one down, and three to … or not. The mummy sat up, its head cocked to the side.

  “What now?” Derek asked, looking at Mitchell.

  Mitchell’s terrified expression ping-ponged from the approaching monsters to Derek. “Now I think it’s the time in the picture for us to run like hell,” he suggested.

  “That’s the first thing you’ve said all day that I understood.”

  Derek grabbed Jill’s hand, pulling her along. They turned a corner, Mitchell sliding on his socked feet and bouncing off a wall. Derek stopped, checking the door to their left. Locked. He continued to the next door. They needed to find the kitchen—fast.

  Jill’s back was pressed against the wall. Her eyes focused on the end of the hall. The moans and buzzing were getting closer and closer.

  Mitchell bent over, hands on his knees, panting. “And don’t even think of saying, ‘Let’s split up.’ ” He pointed from Jill to Derek. “You two are the obvious love interests here, and I’m the expendable comic relief who always gets killed. So, no splitting up!”

  The floor popped open, swallowed Mitchell, and snapped shut. His screams faded away.

  “Mitchell!” Derek yelled, dropping to the floor. “Mitchell!” Derek’s fists pounded where Mitchell fell through. The hatch wouldn’t budge. He listened for Mitchell’s voice, but the only sounds were the wails approaching from down the hall. Damn it! Derek slammed his fist against the floor. First Cecil, and now Mitchell. Could the kid have even survived the fall?

  Jill’s fingers dug into Derek’s arm, yanking him up. “They’re coming, Derek. We have to keep going!”

  “It’s my fault that he was here.” Derek felt like heaving.

  “We’ll get help, then come back, and find him along with Cecil. That was your plan, right?”

  Frankenstein lurched. The mummy dragged its leg. The distance was closing quickly.

  Derek might not be able to help Mitchell and Cecil, but Jill was here, and she needed him. Lacing his fingers with Jill’s, he tugged her away from the creatures.

  “Like Mitchell said—we stick together.”

  * * *

  Bob stepped into the deserted alley behind the theater, searching his pockets for his car keys. The street flooded with light. Limos waited bumper to bumper. People stopped, craning their necks to catch glimpses of who occupied them.

  “Crap, where’s my pot?” Bob double-checked his pockets.

  Oh, yeah. He stuffed it under the counter when the tight-ass came in with the films. Would have sucked if he got all the way home without his stash. With the side streets blocked for the premiere, it would have taken him hours to ge
t back to the theater.

  Bob walked back through the door. Flashing his ID to the security guard, he climbed the stairs to the projection room.

  Maybe the suit would be distracted by the Hollywoods downstairs and wouldn’t notice Bob slipping in and grabbing his weed. The dude looked like he was going to cry when Bob left. But there was no way he was sticking around without pay. Besides, the snacks ran out hours ago. Right now, a pizza, Pringles, and Zeppelin were waiting at home for him.

  The door squeaked as Bob pushed it open. He stuck his head in, no sign of the suit. Bob quietly crossed to the counter and grabbed his weed. Turning, he spotted feet sticking out from under the projector. Shit. Only gone five minutes, and the dude was already jacking up his equipment.

  “Hey, man, I told ya it was all set.” Bob crammed his weed into the front pocket of his pants. “There’s no need to go snooping up my skirt.”

  “Dude?” Bob cautiously took a step forward. The feet were not moving. “Hey, you been sampling some of my stash?”

  “Dude?”

  Bob slowly nudged the suit’s foot. The body jerked, screaming as it slammed into the projector.

  The suit climbed out from underneath, rubbing his head. “What in the hell are you doing here?” he snapped.

  This guy had balls. Acting like he owned the place.

  “What in the hell were you doing under there?” Bob demanded, jabbing a finger at the projector.

  “There’s something wrong with this machine. It was making weird-ass sounds. Look, it cut me.”

  The dude stuck his finger in Bob’s face. Grody! Like Bob really needed to see that. He had told the suit to sit back and chill. Couldn’t he follow a simple command?

  “I told you not to touch my baby!” Bob pushed the suit aside, inspecting the projector. “Bertha … what’s he doing to you?”

  Everything was as Bob had left it. Served the suit right if he got cut. Bob rubbed the side of the machine, cooing to it. “Guess I can’t leave you alone with this moron …”

  “Hey!”

  “Come on, dude. Lighten up,” Bob said, laughing as he pulled the bag of weed out of his pocket.

  Smiling, the suit walked over to the door, flicking the lock. “Will you quit calling me ‘dude’? My name is Simon.”

  “All right, Simon. Have a seat. It’s going to be a long night.”

  * * *

  Mitchell’s high-pitched screams rang in his ears as he careened down the slide. This was so not like the one at Wild Water Safari. He squeezed his eyes shut. Please, don’t let there be any monsters at the bottom. Please, don’t let there be any monsters at the bottom. Please.

  As a matter of fact, please let there be an exit from this fun house.

  A second later, he shot out the bottom of the slide, landing with a thud on the damp tile floor. Mitchell groaned as he sat up.

  “Oh, great. So much for not getting separated.” The room was muggy, and smelled like mold and dirty laundry. Kinda like Craig’s side of the room. An Olympic-size pool sat in the middle. The water was green, and covered with algae. Gross! Guess the brothers don’t swim much.

  Mitchell pushed himself to his feet, peering into the murky water.

  “Please, don’t let the Swamp Thing be hiding in there.”

  The water began to ripple, bubbles rising to the surface.

  “Oh crap!”

  A head rose out of the water. Gray flesh, torn and rotting, on its face. Clothes shredded, stained red with blood. Another head appeared. A partially severed arm followed, dangling from its side.

  “Zombies? Freakin’ zombies?” That’s it! The Baxter brothers were off his Christmas card list. Of all of the horror monsters, they had to stick him with zombies? Classic.

  Mitchell’s feet slipped on the slick tile as he careened backward.

  Two more zombies lurched toward the steps in the pool.

  “Help!” he screamed, but who would answer him?

  Mitchell’s eyes darted around the room. He ran to the only door at the opposite side. Gripping the handle with both hands, he pulled. The door held tight. Moaning and the splash of water sounded behind him.

  Mitchell glanced over his shoulder as two of the zombies staggered out of the pool—arms extended toward him. He stepped away from the door, searching for a weapon.

  “This isn’t funny!” he yelled at no one in particular.

  Right about now would be a good time for the hero to come crashing through the door, guns blazing. Any minute now … Crap. Now what?

  “Okay, I know you aren’t real zombies …” Mitchell took a step backward. “But you guys look like real zombies, and sound like real zombies.” He sniffed the air. “And smell like real zombies … Of course you do! The twins are perfectionists.”

  One of the zombies slipped on the tile, falling to its knees. The other zombie continued forward. Blood dripped from a chunk of missing flesh on its arm.

  “Which probably involves eating human flesh …” Mitchell smacked his forehead with the palm of his hand. “So, think, Mitchell, think! Okay … okay.”

  Mitchell spotted a pool skimmer propped against the wall behind the zombie. Obviously, the thing didn’t get used much.

  “According to Night of the Living Dead, the only way to kill a zombie is to destroy its brain.”

  Mitchell skidded past the zombie just as it lunged for him. Thank God that the Baxters modeled their zombies after the classic Night of the Living Dead ones. Grabbing the pole, he lifted it and swung at the zombie’s head, leaving a large dent in the side. The zombie fell lifeless to the floor.

  “Thank you, George A. Romero!” And Wii Super Sluggers. Who says video games aren’t good for anything?

  A second zombie staggered forward. Part of its jaw was missing, and its teeth were yellowed and cracked. Mitchell swung at the zombie’s head. Sparks flew as a piece of skin slid off.

  Uh-oh. Mitchell held up the pole in his hand. Three quarters missing. Mitchell looked up as the other two zombies approached from opposite sides of the pool. He was cornered.

  Screaming, Mitchell raced at the zombie, jamming the severed pole in its eye. The zombie fell straight back, its head giving a wet thud as it slammed into the floor. Mitchell placed his foot on the zombie’s head and tried to pull the pole out. The pole stuck.

  “Great. This just gets better and better.”

  Mitchell spun around. The last zombie groaned as it clutched Mitchell by the throat, lifting him off the floor. Air wheezed out of Mitchell’s lungs as his legs kicked in the air. Clawing at the zombie’s face, Mitchell gagged as pieces of flesh and muscle crammed under his nails. Pinpoints of light shot in front of Mitchell’s eyes. He dug in his pants pocket, pulling out a pen. Mitchell jammed the point into the zombie’s ear. He felt a squish as it pierced the brain.

  The zombie dropped to the floor, and Mitchell sprawled across it. He pushed himself off, giving the zombie a kick in the head. So much for getting an autograph. At least the pen came in handy for something.

  Mitchell surveyed the dead, well, dead again, bodies lying around the pool. Not bad for a movie geek, huh?

  “Now to get out of Zombie Central.”

  The door was still the only other way out. Unless he was Spider-Man and could climb his way back up the slide. Mitchell braced a foot on the door, grunting as he tried to pull the door open. How the hell was he going to get out of here if the damn door was locked? Mitchell gave it his best karate kick. Hinges creaked as it pushed open.

  “Crap! It was open all the time.” Mitchell stuck his head out into the hallway, looking left, and then right, before stepping out. “If this were a movie, I’d deserve to be killed.”

  Mitchell paused, looking toward the ceiling for cameras.

  “Of course, if anyone’s listening, I didn’t mean that literally.”

  * * *

  Jill stopped as Derek squeezed her hand. “What’s wrong?”

  “Did you hear that?” he asked, looking over his shoulder.
/>   Her heart raced. Maybe Mitchell had escaped and found them.

  But Derek frowned. “I heard a clicking sound.”

  That could not be good. Clicking did not sound like something they wanted to hear.

  Tick. Tick. Tick. Now she heard it, too. A creature, seven feet long, scurried up the wall and across the ceiling. A black shell covered its back, long antennae extending from its head.

  “Run!” Derek released her hand and shoved her forward. She heard him shoot twice, but the bullets ricocheted off the creature’s shell.

  He hauled ass after her. “What kills overgrown cockroaches?”

  “I don’t know!” she said, running as fast as she could. “I never watched monster movies!”

  And yes, she did realize how ironic that was, given how they got into this mess.

  “Where’s that damn kid when you need him?” Derek asked.

  “This way!” Jill shouted, pointing to a door at the end of the hall. “Maybe this one’s unlocked.”

  “Go!” Derek fired another round at the creature’s head. It hissed, but kept crawling toward them. Jill pushed open the door. Derek dove through, and Jill slammed it shut behind him.

  She jumped back as the creature rammed into the door, its squeals muffled. Derek jumped up and twisted the lock closed. He patted the metal door.

  “I’m beginning to like this idea of a steel house.”

  “What do we do now?” Jill asked struggling against tears. “There’s no other way out of here.” She indicated the windowless kitchen. Sure, there were plenty of steel countertops and cabinets, and even a pig roasting on a skewer over a gas fire, but not a single other door.

  Derek squeezed her shoulder. “We may not need a door.”

  She shot him a questioning look, but Derek walked over to the fire pit.

  “Derek, what are you …?”

  Scraping and pounding continued at the door. Louder. Moaning and shrieking accompanied the clicking. Great. The cockroach brought friends.

  “Help me find the turn-off valve for the gas,” Derek said as he checked the other side.

  Jill bent down and felt around the lip of the pit. “Got it!” She turned to the right. The flames lowered, and then popped out.

  Derek grunted as he lifted the pig and the skewer off the hook, tossing them on the floor.