Larry scowled at the screen.
“Forget werewolves.
“What else is there?”
His pipe slurped. He twisted the stem off, blew a fine spray into the wastebasket beside his chair, put the pipe back together and lighted it again.
A few minutes later, he had a list:
werewolves
ghosts (boring)
zombies
aliens
misc. beasts
demonic possession (shit)
homicidal maniac (done to death)
curses
wishes granted (“Monkey’s Paw”)
possessed machinery (King’s realm)
crazed animals (see above, and BIRDS)
haunted house (possibilities)
“How ABOUT a haunted house book?” he wrote.
He’d always wanted to do one, and always reached the same stumbling block. By and large, he didn’t consider ghosts sufficiently scary. Something else had to be in the house. But what?
That question took him back to the list.
He stared at it for a long time.
“Something horrible inside the house,” he wrote. “But what?”
How about a vampire under the staircase?
Right. Just thinking about it made his insides crawl.
He was on his knees beside the coffin again, staring at the withered corpse. Feeling fear and disgust.
He wanted to forget he ever saw the thing, not spend the next few months dwelling on it.
“A blond corpse under the hotel stairs,” he wrote. “A stake in its chest. Found by some people exploring a ghost town. Could tell it just the way it happened. Fun and games.”
He wrinkled his nose.
“But they don’t run off, scared shitless, like we did. Maybe some of them do. But one is fascinated. Is this a vampire, or isn’t it? A character like Pete, but a little crazier. He
“They don’t come out, and don’t come out. The others get worried, go back into the hotel to see what’s keeping the guy. Nobody under the stairs. The coffin is empty.
“Little problem, bud. Vampires don’t screw around in the daytime. So how come our merry band is exploring a ghost town after dark?
“Easy. They’re driving through town, on the way home from an outing in the desert, and the van breaks down. Flat tire, or something.”
Ah, he thought, the old car-breaking-down-in-just-the-worst-possible-place gag.
It could work, though.
And it had a nice bonus: that wasn’t the way things happened yesterday.
“Make it different enough from the truth,” he typed, “and maybe you can handle it.
“How about taking One Big Step, and changing what’s under the stairs? Not a dead gal with a stake in her chest, but a... a what? (A crate with a monster in it? Been done.) Could be anything. The body of a creature from outer space? A troll? Have open spaces between the stairs, and it reaches through and drags people in by the feet. Gobbles ‘em up. He he he.
“Chicken.
“What’s wrong with the way it really was?
“Yuck. Horror’s supposed to be fun.
“But there’s a real story there. Who is she? Who put the stake in her chest? Was the lock (brand new) put on the hotel doors by the same person who hid her under the stairs? Best of all, what happens if you pull the stake?
“Lies there. Dead meat.
“But what if life flows into her? Her dry, crusty skin becomes smooth and youthful. Her flat breasts swell into gorgeous mounds. Her sunken face fills out. She is beautifiil beyond your wildest imagination. She is breathtaking. (And bloodtaking.)
“She doesn’t bite your neck, after all.
“That’s because she’s grateful to you for freeing her to live again. Feels so indebted that she’ll do anything for you. You’re her master, and she will do your bidding. In effect, you have this gorgeous thing as your slave.
“Real possibilities.”
Nine
Lane shoved her books onto the locker shelf, took out her lunch bag and shut the metal door. As she gave the combination lock a twirl, an arm slipped around her stomach, a mouth pressed the side of her neck. She cringed as chills scurried up her skin.
“Stop it,” she said, whirling around.
“Couldn’t help myself,” Jim said.
Lane looked past him. The hallway was crowded. Kids were wandering by, talking and laughing. Those who weren’t with friends all seemed to be in a great hurry. Lockers slammed. Teachers stood near their classroom doorways, on the lookout for trouble. Nobody seemed to be paying any attention to Lane and Jim.
“Did you miss me?” Jim asked.
“I survived.”
“Uh-oh. Am I in trouble?”
“I don’t much care to be grabbed in public. How many times do I have to tell you that?”
“Oooh, touchy. Are we on the rag?”
Lane felt heat rush to her face. “Real nice,” she muttered. “Who died and made you king of the jerks?”
He smiled, but there was no humor in his eyes. “I was just kidding. Can’t you take a joke?”
“Obviously not.”
He dropped the smile. “I don’t need this.”
“Good. Adios.”
Scowling, he muttered something Lane couldn’t hear, turned away and joined the flow of the hallway crowd. He walked about twenty feet, then glanced over his shoulder as if he expected Lane to come rushing after him.
She gave him a glare.
He smirked as if to say, “Your loss, bitch,” then continued down the hall.
Creep, she thought.
On the rag. What a shitty thing to say.
She leaned back against her locker and took a deep breath, trying to calm herself. She felt hot with
