The Midnight Tour

He swooped in behind Sandy and put his hands on her shoulders.

He stood directly behind her. She could only see the ends of his fingers. The rest of Marlon was hidden behind her body.

Then his head tilted sideways and she saw his chubby face in the mirror as if she were wearing it on her left shoulder.

“My glorious Margaret,” he intoned, his voice thick and low. “My star.” He started rubbing her shoulders. “You shall be my star.”

“Don’t think so,” she muttered.

“Imagine yourself on the big screen,” he said. His hands gently, firmly massaged her shoulders and the sides of her neck. “That’s no mirror in front of us, that’s a movie screen. And there you are, Margaret Blume, two stories high.”

“I just look like I’ve got a real bad sunburn,” she said, and yawned. Though she still felt a little jittery, the massage made her lazy, groggy. Her head began to wobble with the motions of the rubbing.

Then Marlon kissed the side of her neck.

“Hey, don’t,” she murmured.

“Watch the mirror,” he said, his breath tickling her skin.

“Stop it.”

“It’s all right. Nothing’s wrong. Look at yourself. See how beautiful you are. See what your audiences will see.” His reflection smiled at her. Then his hands slid down over her shoulders, down her chest. “You are so glorious,” he whispered, and closed his hands on her breasts. He rubbed them, gently squeezed them through the fabric of her shirt.

Sandy squirmed. “Quit it,” she said.

“You don’t mean that. It feels very good, doesn’t it? I know that it does.”

In the mirror, she saw herself squirm and grab his hands and try to peel them off her breasts.

But he kept them on her.

“It’s all right,” he said. “Don’t fight it. It feels good.”

“No!”

He suddenly released her breasts, ripped her shirt open and jerked it backward and down off her shoulders. She glimpsed herself bare to the waist, her skin bathed in scarlet light, her breasts lurching as she tried to twist away.

He grabbed her arms and pinned them against her sides.

“Look at yourself,” he said, still sounding very calm.

“That’s no mirror. You’re on the big screen, thousands of people staring up at you in awe. You’re a star. Everyone wants you. Everyone wants to look at you, to touch you, to fuck you.”

“Leave me alone!”

“You don’t want that. You want to be up on the screen, huge and spectacular. Look at yourself.”

“Let go of me right now, you bastard!”

“You love it, you love it. You love this. See how you’re watching yourself? You can’t take your eyes away. You love how you look. Now, imagine yourself a hundred times larger. Stop that squirming!” He shook her roughly.

She watched her body jerk back and forth, her head bobbing, her breasts jumping.

He stopped shaking her. “Now stand still,” he said, “and I’ll let go of you.”

“Let go,” she said. Her voice came out high and trembling. “Please.”

Marlon released his tight grip on her arms. He slid the shirt down them. As it fell to the floor, he reached around and caressed her belly with both hands. Then his pudgy fingers went to her belt buckle.

Flinching rigid, she clutched his wrists and gasped, “No!”

Marlon laughed softly and undid the buckle. Then he unfastened the button at her waist. As he started to pull her zipper down, Eric leaped out of the red glow, landed on the dresser, skidded to a halt and whirled to face them.

Marlon’s laughter stopped. His fingers stopped.

Eric stood in a crouch on top of the dresser, his body glistening and ruddy. He snarled, baring his fangs, and raised his arms like a miniature boogeyman.

And sprang straight for Marlon’s face.

As Eric flew at him, the director squeaked once in a high voice that sounded nothing at all like the rich resonance of Marlon Slade.

In the mirror, Sandy watched Marion’s horrified, pudgy face vanish—hidden behind the body of her son.

Marlon’s fingers jerked away from the zipper of her shorts.

He stopped pressing against her back.

Her shorts fell to the floor.

They almost tripped Sandy as she whirled around and watched him stumble backward with Eric clinging to his face. He reached up to grab Eric. The bed knocked his legs out from under him. As he fell, he hurled the infant away.

“No!” Sandy cried out.

Her son crashed against the wall near the head of her bed. He bounced off and dropped to the floor, tumbling.

She kicked the shorts away from her feet, rushed over to him and crouched down.

He lay sprawled on his back, blinking up at her.

His teeth and muzzle were bloody. Sandy hoped the blood was all Marlon’s.

She heard the director whimpering behind her. Looking over her shoulder, she saw him on his hands and knees. He raised his head and gaped at her, his mouth open, his face shredded. “It’s... it’s one of them!” he gasped. “Isn’t it? Isn’t it? My God! Did you see the little fucker attack me?” He pushed himself up, stood on his feet, and stared past Sandy at the baby sprawled on the floor. “Look at that ugly fucker. Son-of-a-bitch! Where’d it come from? Good thing I was here, or it would’ve got you.”

Sandy glared at him and said, “I don’t think so. I’m his mom.”

“What?”

“He’s my kid.”

Marlon staggered toward them, blood spilling from his tattered face.

Sandy stood up in front of him.

“Outa my way, bitch,” he gasped. When he said “bitch,” blood blew off his lips and sprayed Sandy in the face. “I’ve got some business to finish with your little monster, and then...”

She punched him in the nose.

His eyes bulged and he stumbled backward.

Sandy kicked one of his feet sideways. He tripped himself.

With a gasp of alarm, he fell and landed on his rump. The trailer shook.

Sandy turned and lunged for the dresser.

Glimpsed a naked red woman rushing at the mirror.

Jerked open the middle drawer.

Snatched out her butcher knife.

“You take this, ” Agnes Kutch bad said, holding out the big, old knife to her. “You gonna be moving outa the house and living in that trailer out there, you gotta have a weapon. Wish I had a gun to give you, but this here is a real good knife. Mama, she used it on a fella once.”

“I know, ” Sandy’d told her. “I was there. I saw her do it ”

She slammed the dresser drawer and turned to face Marlon.

He was already on his knees, struggling to stand up.

She raised the knife overhead.

Marlon screamed like a woman.