That honor went to his teeth.
They had grown noticeably larger. Every molar and incisor came to a jagged point that reminded Brad of sharpened bones. They were crooked and asymmetric and they made Brad want to run the other way.
“I wouldn’t do that, Officer,” Tom said as if he’d heard Brad thinking aloud. “Besides, there aren’t a whole lot of places to hide tonight.”
What the hell was that supposed to mean?
Who the hell cares? Something is seriously wrong with this kid. Turn around and get your ass in gear.
He followed his mind’s orders and spun around, but stopped short when he saw they were no longer the only ones in the holding area. There were other shapes now, four of them, all just as pale and all just as deformed as Tom. They were vamps too, he realized. They’d all changed somehow, transformed into these things that snickered and pointed at him like wolves moving in for the kill.
Perhaps they had been messing around with witchcraft or a Ouija board or some other thing was best left untouched. Whatever the case, there was one thing that was painfully obvious. Brad was not getting through them. He reached for his gun but his hand grasped the empty holster on his belt.
“Looking for this?” Tom said.
Brad turned around, already certain what he’d see.
Tom held up Brad’s nine millimeter. “I never really understood guns. Seems like a cheap shot, you know? You hold them out and you press a button and boom, you’re dead. I’d rather get in close. Maybe I’ve just played too much football. You know the funny thing? I didn’t even want to play in the first place. That was my old man’s doing. He was a quarterback in his day and he wanted the same for me. He used to force me to toss the skin around. You know what happened if I didn’t feel like playing ball, Officer?”
Brad swallowed the last bit of saliva in his mouth. He shook his head.
“He hurt me. I’m not talking a spank on the ass either. I mean bruises and cuts. I lost three baby teeth to his fist. But in a way, I owe the old man. He taught me how to be tough. I’ll be thanking him tonight when I drop by and break his neck. Which reminds me.”
Brad tried to move but the others grabbed onto his back and held him in place. Their grips were impossibly strong. He felt his skin bruising in protest, felt his bones preparing to break.
“I made a promise earlier,” Tom said. “You can call me freak all you want but if there’s one thing I always do, it’s keep my promises.” He reached forth, grabbed onto Brad’s neck, and twisted so that Brad heard something snap. The pain was distant at first, like something in a dream, but the dream quickly turned to a nightmare as he felt every nerve in his body scream in agony. He fell to the floor and twitched just as Tom had promised. His vision began to fail and he breathed in deeply for the last time, noticing the sweet scent of tangerine nicotine still hanging in the air. In some sick way, it was calming.
But the moment was ruined when the other vamps—the other things—moved in.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Justin stood on Art’s front steps for what could have been ten minutes. He’d hesitated on ringing the doorbell several times, still wasn’t certain he wanted to be out of the house tonight. His suspicions from earlier had grown to something akin to a premonition.
All was not right in Lynnwood.
The streets were too quiet. There were trick-or-treaters, of course, but fewer than there should’ve been. Those that ventured out were herded along by parents who looked on edge, peering into every doorway as if something horrible waited for them.
The fog had grown so thick he couldn’t see beyond Art’s front yard. The street was a white blur in the distance. If anyone wished to remain hidden, Justin thought, it would’ve been simple.
Listen to your gut, he could hear his father say. You ought to head back home and lock the door behind you.
Before he could follow through, Art appeared and stepped outside. He wore an orange fake beard that reminded Justin of boxed macaroni and cheese. There was a cloth around his head and he wore his martial arts outfit from eighth grade. The fabric was so snug, his elbows threatened to burst through at any moment. “Like the costume?”
“What the hell are you supposed to be?”
“Isn’t it obvious? I’m Chuck Fucking Norris. I could ask you the same thing.” He nodded toward Justin’s own costume.
He hadn’t had much in the way of Halloween clothing so he’d finally settled on a trench coat, a notepad, and his father’s high-end camera. It had an external flash, was meant to look like something from the thirties but was digital as opposed to film. Justin had a hunch the thing had cost more than his car. “I’m Justin Raimi,” he said. “Famed reporter for the Lynnwood Herald.”
Art fingered his fake beard. “You know, I think I might’ve heard the name before. Do you by any chance have a partner? A real dashing guy with a huge wang? I think his name’s Art Craven or something along those lines?”
“Ex-partner,” Justin said.
“Yeah? What happened?”
“He was useless. Never wanted to lift a finger. Finally had to let him go. The way he stumbled around his job, you would’ve thought he was blind or something.” Justin raised the camera, inches away from Art’s eyes, and fired off a shot.
The night lit up and Art almost fell backward. He covered his eyes with one hand and flipped Justin off with the other. “That was a dick move.”
“Who’s here anyway?” Justin said, not bothering to help his friend while his eyes recovered. He stepped past Art and into the living room.
“More like who isn’t here,” Art said, blinking several times.
Justin surveyed the party. While it certainly wasn’t a rager, he had to admit there were more people than he’d thought would show up. He recognized several faces from school. There were stoners and drama club members and shop kids but oddly enough there wasn’t a single cheerleader or jock.
That’s because they’re all at the old school, getting up to who knows what.
It was true. Everyone here was on his level of the social totem pole and below. The most popular attendee he spotted was Brenda Gilson. She’d once been at the top of her class, a typical blonde bombshell, but last year she’d started smoking weed and since then had been in a perpetual hippie phase.
They were the vamp rejects, the ones who hadn’t made the cut. Not for the first time, he wondered why that was. Why the hell were all the popular students and the brainiacs being dragged into the Lynnwood Vampires?
“Look alive,” Art said, smacking Justin so hard on the shoulder, pins and needles traveled along his back.
“Yeah? Why’s that?”
Justin hadn’t noticed the music until now, as the song changed to some club tune he vaguely recognized from the radio. Art leaned in close so that his beard scratched Justin’s neck, whispering something into his ear.
Justin cocked his head. “What’d you say?”
Art spoke again but the music was louder now. Someone dressed as a mummy was standing by the stereo, turning up the volume.
Justin shrugged, mouthed that he couldn’t hear a thing.
Instead of trying to speak again, Art spun him around in the direction of the kitchen. Standing just outside the screen door to the patio stood a French maid that was so good looking, his knees went weak. She was turned slightly away from him, laughing at something her friend—dressed as a sexy cat—was saying. The maid’s laughter turned to a full-on howl, and though he couldn’t hear it over the speakers, he could imagine the sound of snorting. She held her nose to stop the sound and Justin recognized the motion.
Alyssa hated the sound of her laugh. It was half the reason he tried so hard to be funny. Whereas she thought she sounded pig-like when she snorted, he believed it was quite possibly the most endearing thing he’d ever heard.
“Why the hell is she here?” Justin said, competing with the thumping bass and shrieking synths.
Art didn’t answer. Justin turned and saw that hi
s friend was talking to a girl dressed as Dorothy from the Wizard of Oz.
Son of a bitch. He knew the whole time and he didn’t think to mention she’d be here. The whole reason you came to this shitty party was to get your mind off things.
He didn’t want to talk to Alyssa tonight. He had enough on his plate. In fact, the prospect of moving to a new house now seemed wonderful. He could have a clean break, a new start. He could pretend he didn’t love his high school sweetheart anymore.
He looked back at the screen door. It was open now. The mummy who had turned up the volume held what looked like a bottle of wine. He or she stepped onto the patio and tripped, landing face first. A few people helped the mummy up, Alyssa included. When they had the mummy up, he saw it too was a girl, Alyssa’s friend Maggie.
Get out of here now before she sees you.
But he was too late. Alyssa stepped inside to grab paper towels and froze in the doorway when she saw him standing there. For a moment, he forgot all about that nervous feeling in his gut, the one that screamed a warning. The one that was certain the vamps would try something tonight.
●●●
Ron Murray limped toward the liquor cabinet. His eye was still very much swollen shut and he’d twisted his knee when he’d been tackled. That morning, walking down the stairs and still half asleep, he’d forgotten all about the pain, scratching the sleep away from his bruised eye. He’d yelped at the sudden jolt, lost his balance, and landed on his right ankle, the leg that hadn’t been injured prior. It wasn’t broken, the doctor had said, but it was badly sprained and he’d need to take it easy for a few days.
Not to mention he wasn’t supposed to drink with his painkillers.
Fat chance of that, he thought as he poured himself a whiskey. He downed it, winced at the burn, and poured another. You’d think after drinking yourself stupid for nearly two decades, you’d get over that initial fire in your throat but if anything, it had gotten worse with age. Along with just about everything else.
Look at yourself. You’re an old man with no friends, no hobbies, and no lovers.
He’d never married, hadn’t been able to find someone willing to put up with his shit. He’d thought about offing himself more than once but he figured that was the easy way out. If so many people couldn’t stand his guts, he owed it to himself to stick around and ruin their days the best he could. You could call him bitter if you wanted. He preferred the term “difficult.”
He downed the second whiskey and, unsurprisingly, poured a third.
Outside, kids hollered and laughed and screamed obscenities. He hated Halloween—despised all holidays for that matter—but this one took the cake. Even as a child, he’d never understood the concept. Why dress up and ask for candy when you could save yourself the trouble and buy some?
He’d left a bowl of the cheapest chocolates he could find outside on the deck. They were from the dollar store, had been made and packaged in some faraway land. He hoped they contained chemicals so toxic, each and every idiot that ventured onto his steps had the runs all night.
Something hit his door. He jumped, nearly dropping his glass. At first he thought someone was knocking but then he remembered no one had visited in years. The thud came again, followed by a cracking sound.
Eggs, he thought. Those bastards are egging my house.
He reached for the cutlery holder and grabbed the largest chef’s knife of the bunch.
He put his robe and slippers on, he charged to the front door, pulled it open. He’d been right. There were several eggs along the porch and his home’s exterior. The yokes were thick and slimy, dripping down the siding like snot. He noticed several shadows in the corner of his yard, huddled near the shrubs, mostly hidden through the dense fog. They giggled to each other.
He raised the knife. “You see this, you little pricks? You step foot on my lawn again and I’ll carve you like a jack o’ lantern.” He slammed the door shut and heard them shuffling around outside. If they were smart—though most kids weren’t—they’d get their asses away as soon as possible.
He was just about to drink his third whiskey when something else hit the door, something heavy enough to shake the wood in its frame. It was certainly not an egg this time. Another sound followed, scraping and clawing, like something was scratching to get in.
For a moment, no matter how juvenile it seemed, he imagined a tall hairy beast, something like a Sasquatch but ten times larger. It had crawled out of the sewer and chosen its first victim, would burst through the door at any moment and tear him to shreds without effort.
He shook his head. Who was he kidding? He knew exactly who was on the other side of that door. Knew for sure now who had thrown the eggs.
It was those freaks.
The vamps.
Maybe Tom Parkins had made bail after all and he was here to finish what he’d started. A smile slid across Murray’s face and he raised the knife. This time he was prepared. He wound back, opened the door.
And gasped.
His mental vision had been wrong. There wasn’t anything trying to get in but instead the poor thing was struggling to get away. It was a cat of indeterminate age, its fur as black as the night, and it had seen better days. Its blood had painted his door a dark shade of red, the liquid leaving streaks along the deck. What looked to be a railroad spike had been driven through its body and was halfway into his front door.
Bastards. While he hated kids and his coworkers and just about every other human being he’d ever come in contact with, he’d always had a soft spot for cats. He’d owned more than a few in his lifetime and had planned on getting another just next week. Cats kept to themselves. They didn’t care to be bothered, wanted only to exist in their little bubbles, coming out for the occasional belly scratch. He would make them pay for this. Those little freaks would get what was coming to them.
Someone cleared their throat. The sound came from not outside in the mist but from behind. From his kitchen.
He spun around and dropped the knife when he saw Tom Parkins and Vickie Bronson standing in his home. From his spot at the door, he could see the window he’d left open in the bathroom. The screen had a large rip through it, like something had clawed through. Perhaps his Sasquatch vision hadn’t been far off after all.
Tom held the glass of whiskey to his mouth and drank the amber liquid. “You call this booze? It tastes like piss.” The boy’s voice was low and raspy and did not match the student who had knocked his teacher to the ground. Then again, he barely resembled a boy anymore. His features had changed somehow. His skin was even paler—if that was possible—and it reminded Murray of shoe leather, worn from age.
The worst feature, the thing that made a few drops of piss squeeze their way onto Murray’s inner thigh, were Tom’s new teeth. They were perhaps two inches in length. The points looked just as sharp as the knife on the floor.
Speaking of which, he kneeled down to grab the blade, but stopped halfway.
Tom shook his head. “I wouldn’t do that.”
“Get out of my house before I call the cops.”
Vickie laughed. Her voice had lowered too. It reminded Murray of a cassette tape played at half speed. “Fat chance of that. Most of them are probably dead by now.”
“What the hell does that mean?” Murray stared at the blade and saw his reflection. He looked scared.
Vickie held a long index finger with a knife-like nail to her mouth. He realized what had expertly scratched through his screen. “Shut up for once in your pathetic life and listen.”
He did as he was told. Though his pulse rocketed through his ears, it wasn’t hard to hear the sounds emanating from outside. What he’d first mistaken as kids raising hell sounded more like hell itself had already risen. Those were not shouts of joy but cries of pain. A woman from somewhere on the street begged for mercy, told something to stop chewing on her flesh.
“What is happening?” Murray said.
Tom smiled, his teeth fully revealed. There were too
many to count. “Do you own a calendar? It’s Halloween. The veil is thin and the dead are here to play.”
“And we’re starving,” Vickie said. She pulled out a compact mirror and studied her face, apparently satisfied with her new deformed cheeks and chin.
“I’m warning you,” Murray said but he trailed off.
“I believe you warned me a few days ago,” Tom said. “Right before I broke your face.” He nodded toward the bruise. “It looks painful. I noticed you were limping when we nailed poor Whiskers to your door. I’m not a betting man but I’d wager you won’t be running any time soon.” Tom removed the cap from the whiskey bottle and guzzled the rest of its contents in seconds, wiping his mouth and belching. “You should buy some better stuff. Being a drunk is probably expensive but take some pride in your addiction.”
“We should’ve grabbed some of your dad’s shit before we left,” Vickie said.
Tom nodded. “Would’ve went well with our next meal.”
Murray’s bladder felt ready to burst. He began to shake badly. “Please. Just get out of here. I… I’m sorry.”
“That must have been hard for you,” Vickie said, giggling again.
Tom set the bottle down and began to step toward Murray, who backed away until his bad foot stepped in the mess on his front porch. He lost balance and fell into the wet grass. His stairs were mostly covered in blood now.
Vickie ran a finger along the spike and brought it to her mouth, sucking the blood and sighing like it was fine wine.
Tom pointed to the feline. “This is my least favorite part but, really, it’s your fault.”
“My fault?” His voice quivered now.
Tom nodded. “That’s right. At the beginning of the semester, when our numbers grew, someone started a rumor about us. Said we liked to nail animals to doors. Some kind of ritual or something. So we ran with it. Mostly because you started the same damn rumor about our fearless leader a decade ago, just before Melvin killed himself.”
We Came Back Page 19