Witching Hour Theatre Page 7

  He spun and saw Pumpkinhead rushing at him, his huge arms extended, and the only thing Larry could think to do was duck. The giant snatched at him and missed. Larry stood up and saw his chance. Pumpkinhead’s back was exposed. Larry rocked on his heels and swung the axe at the giant’s back, aiming for the words LIVING DEAD, and he heard Longface shriek as the blade swooshed toward his partner.

  The heavy blade crunched into Pumpkinhead’s shirt and all but disappeared, cleaving through fat and gristle, ribs and lung. The axe was torn from Larry’s fingers. With a bellow of mortal anguish the giant spun and goggled at Wilson in shock. His great hands flapped and pawed at the object sticking out of his back. His fingers closed on the handle and with an awful slurping sound, he pulled the axe out.

  Longface was weeping. Pumpkinhead gaped down at the axe as though it were something he’d never seen. His eyes glazing, his limp hands still holding the axe out in front of him, Pumpkinhead thudded to his knees.

  As if in a dream, Larry stepped forward and accepted the axe from Pumpkinhead’s hands as though the giant had proffered it. For a moment, Wilson’s eyes blazed at Longface. Then, exulting in the cry of anguish that leapt from the freak’s broken heart, Wilson swung the axe like a baseball bat and felt the flesh of Pumpkinhead’s neck split around the steel blade.

  The giant’s head didn’t quite come off.

  The blade stopped two thirds of the way through. Pumpkinhead’s dead body flopped forward at Wilson’s feet.

  The booth was silent for a long moment.

  Then, with an earsplitting scream, Longface threw himself at Wilson, his long vampire fingers scratching and clawing at his face.

  Both men landed on the counter and though Larry fought to match the vigor of the freak’s onslaught, he soon found himself gasping for air as Longface’s fingers seized on his neck.

  The freak’s vile stench scalded his nostrils. Larry reached out to rake the man’s eyes but couldn’t reach them. The freakishly long arms squeezed his throat and held him at bay. Wilson grew faint. The freak throttled him, mercilessly banging his head against the Plexiglas. Larry glimpsed the man’s long face, felt the demonic vengeance charging the squeezing talons. Wilson tried to suck in breath, but the choking hands had closed his airway. His breath was gone.

  Reaching out in a flickering haze, Wilson’s hand fastened on the first thing it touched.

  Nichole’s shirt.

  He fingered the button pinned to it and as waves of gray swam over him, he remembered its message: WELCOME TO WITCHING HOUR THEATRE. As his vision blurred and he felt the last threads of consciousness snapped apart by the freak’s iron grip, Larry yanked the button off the shirt and felt it spring open, exposing the sharp point of the steel fastener. In desperation, he jabbed the long metal needle at the man’s forearm, and instantly, the choking hands jerked away.

  Longface shrieked and slapped at the button. His lips drawn back in pain, the freak slid the needle out of his flesh. Longface clutched his forearm with a trembling white hand and watched the blood bubble up between his fingers. Larry curled up on the counter, coughing up blood and watching it spatter on the white countertop. Larry turned and gazed up at the freak. Longface stared at his own bleeding arm in disbelief.

  Then he glowered at Wilson.

  “You fucker,” he growled.

  Before he was trapped in another chokehold, Larry shoved off of the counter and met the freak head-on. Seizing him by the ears, he jerked the man’s face down and lashed out with his own forehead.

  Their skulls crunched together like rams, the sound cracking like a pistol shot in the small booth.

  The force of the headbutt surprised them both, and both men reeled. Then, blood sluicing down his forehead, Wilson tackled Longface, driving the freak’s skinny body against the wall. Struggling, they twisted through the open doorway and Larry heard Nichole call out weakly as he and Longface danced sideways over the landing. The floor beneath Wilson disappeared. Clutching each other by the neck, they tumbled down the stairs.

  They toppled end over end, their bellows and cries merging together as the sharp edges of the stairs struck them glancing blows, pierced their bodies with razor teeth, cracked their ribs and vertebrae as they caromed down into the darkness.

  They landed in a bonecrunching heap.

  Wilson gasped for air, his body a scarlet web of agony. Under him, the man’s alien head cocked at an awkward position, Longface lay still. Larry strained to discern the freak’s face in the darkness, to somehow confirm he was dead.

  Had the son of a bitch broken his neck? In the movies that was usually the way, the hero grappling with the villain as they fell, the villain getting the worst of it.

  Something darkened the doorway at the top of the stairs. Wilson swiveled his head painfully and gazed up. Nichole was gazing down at him through the shadows. She leaned against the open door, dazed, looking like she was about to crumple. Could she see him? He tried to raise his hand to wave but pain flooded through his arm and he knew it was broken. He tried to disengage his other arm to signal her but found that it was hopelessly pinned under Longface’s limp body. This close to the man, the smell was revolting, soiled diapers and rancid meat.

  Eyes adjusting to the darkness, Larry looked down and examined the closed eyes of the freak. The powdery skin seemed old and dry.

  Larry brought his face closer to see if the creature still breathed. Blood had slopped over the freak’s bottom lip, was dripping from the white chin. The stench was awful but he had to be certain Longface was dead. Wilson leaned in and watched for movement, waited for the spoiled hot breath on his skin.

  The man’s eyes opened.

  Longface leered at him, his sharkish teeth bloodied and bubbling.

  Something in Wilson snapped. With a moan, he bared his teeth and lunged for the man’s throat. He heard the creature give a little hoot of surprise and felt Longface thrash beneath him as Larry’s teeth sank into the soft flesh of his throat. Larry ripped away a gobbet of flesh and spat it aside. Blood sprayed his face, but he plunged into the open wound, snarling like an animal. Larry champed and bit with vise-like jaws. Longface thrashed and wailed. Wilson burrowed and gnawed and tore at the man’s throat like a ravening beast. Longface’s fingers tore at Larry’s hair. Heedless of the pain in his scalp, Wilson advanced with grim resolve toward the bobbing Adam’s apple. Blood spurted around his lips and shot up his nostrils but still he chewed. Longface slapped at Wilson’s head and bucked and squirmed to throw him off, but Larry only bit down harder. His growling became frenzied as he chewed through gristle, gnashed through cartilage. Beneath his own guttural growls he heard the man’s choked gurgle. The blows pummeling Wilson’s shoulders grew weak.

  After a time, Longface lay still.

  Larry raised his face from the gore-streaked mess of Longface’s throat. Then Larry began to purge for the second time that evening. He hung there in the darkness, letting the hot flood splatter over Longface. He felt no compunction about puking the blood and chewed remains back into the man’s ruined throat, over the hateful, unmoving face.

  As Larry heaved and coughed, he felt a small hand rest on his shoulder. Nichole murmured gentle words, comforting him. His body ached, but he hurt more for her. What had the bastards done to her before he arrived?

  The vomiting abated. Out of breath, Wilson pushed up so that he was resting on all fours. His broken arm was numb.

  “It’s okay,” Nichole was saying as she caressed his back. “It’s okay, Larry.”

  He slumped down on his rear end, and his vision went gray. Nichole’s arms were locked under his, holding him up.

  “Can you stand?”

  Waves of gray swept over him, through him.

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Try, Larry.”

  Leaning on her for support, he climbed slowly to his feet. Clenching his teeth against the searing pain in his right shin, he peered through the dimness at her.

  “I think my leg might be bro
ken,” he said.

  He felt himself going under and fell against her. She held him until he regained his equilibrium. She was very strong for someone so small, he reflected. He recalled the way she’d caught the axe before it split his head in two.

  The pressure of her hand under his left arm shot spirals of pain through his torso. “My arm’s broken too,” he told her, trying to keep his voice even.

  “You’re better off than he is.” She was peering down at Longface.

  He couldn’t look at the man he’d just killed.

  Instead, he whispered, “We’ve got to get out of here.”

  “I know. Just catch your breath.”

  He shook his head. “I mean we need to get out of here now,” he said and thought of all the horror movies he’d seen. Both killers couldn’t be dead. It was too soon.

  “Okay,” she said. “Let’s go.”

  As he limped through the doorway to the lobby, his good arm slung over her shoulder for support, he couldn’t help throwing fearful glances toward the red door, which hung ajar. This was when the killer always came back to life: when the terror seemed to be over, that’s when things were the most dangerous.

  They reached the concession stand. She shepherded him around the counter and leaned him up against it.

  “I’ll take extra butter with that,” he muttered.

  She gave him a wan smile and he knew then that whatever had happened to her in the projection booth hadn’t destroyed her spirit. Not completely.

  Still, he couldn’t rid his mind of the images, of Longface running his skeleton’s hand up her leg. He glanced at Nichole, caught a glimpse of her buttocks through the sheer white cloth, and despite all that had happened, he still felt his neck burn with embarrassment and impotent rage.

  “Shouldn’t we find clothes for you to put on?” he asked. He studied the concession stand counter so he wouldn’t glimpse her private parts through the gauzy dress.

  “I’m not wild about the outfit either,” she muttered, “but all things considered, I just want to get out of this place.” She bent and shuffled under the counter for something.

  He kept his eyes averted. “If you say so.”

  “Are you embarrassed, Mr. Wilson?” she asked from behind the counter.

  “‘Embarrassed’ isn’t the right word.” He was growing used to the nausea, but the fury would not abate. “It’s just…those sick, sadistic…”

  She reappeared from behind the counter, stared up at him. “Larry, look at me.”

  He did.

  “Other than seeing me naked and touching my legs—” she broke off as tears filled her eyes.

  She cleared her throat and said, “You got there in time.”

  Larry’s throat burned with a wet heat. He forced a smile.

  She reached up, squeezed his hand, and came out from behind the counter. She carried something in her hand, and passing him, she strode over to the gate. He heard a rattle, and looking over he saw she had unlocked it and was rolling it open.

  “Hey, Nichole?” he said. “I wanted to tell you…I’m sorry.”

  She came back over to him. “For what?”

  “I left you here with those monsters.”

  “But you came back,” she said, putting an arm around him. “That’s all that matters.”

  He felt tears welling in his eyes as he let her support him. Together, they made their awkward way through the lobby. As she unlocked the front door and led him through, he glanced over his shoulder one more time to see if they’d been followed.

  But the lobby was empty.

  Chapter Five

  The waiter nodded and left the table, the sounds of murmured conversation and classical music swallowing the little man. The warm air, redolent with garlic and wine, drifted onto the terrace of the Café Vienna. Nichole claimed it felt good on her bare arms, but Larry worried the April chill and the sleeveless dress would prove uncomfortable for her. Still, he liked the salmon color on her. Her hair had grown longer since the night at the theater, and it brushed her shoulders as it stirred in the light breeze. She ran a fingernail gently around the edge of her wine glass and peered up at him.

  As he always did when her eyes locked with his, Larry experienced an infinitesimal shock that they were together.

  “You seem distracted,” she said. “Something on your mind?”

  He glanced at her and searched her eyes. He considered dropping what he was going to say, but with a little shake of his head he lifted his glass, and drained the rest of his wine.

  He could feel her eyes on him as she waited.

  He wiped his mouth and sighed. “It’s only been six months. Are you sure you’re ready for this?”

  She watched him over the candlelight. “Are you?”

  “I’m not the one who went through hell.”

  Nichole covered his hand with hers. “I’d say we both did.”

  He watched her for a moment, flirted with the notion of marching around the table and sweeping her into his arms. But he didn’t.

  “Larry?” she prompted.

  He nodded. “Okay,” he said.

  Dinner commenced, and as he always did when he spent time with Nichole—which was a daily occurrence now—he felt himself relaxing, his accustomed self-consciousness draining away.

  She lifted a basket of garlic rolls and placed it in front of him.

  “No thanks,” he said. “I already had one. It tasted like driftwood.”

  “Have another,” she said, placing a roll in his palm. “We have to keep those jaws strong, don’t we?”

  He stared at her, ignoring the garlic roll in his hand. She chuckled lightly, her tongue pressed against the inside of her teeth. Her eyes sparkled in the candlelight.

  “You’re a sick woman,” he said, grinning despite himself.

  “I’m not the one who loves watching people being eaten alive by zombies.”

  “Some of your romantic comedies are much more disturbing.”

  “Hey!”

  “Seriously. The last one you made me watch had an ending so cheesy that it gave me nightmares.”

  Laughing, she chucked a roll at him.

  After dinner they ambled along the river and smelled the rain from earlier that day. The April air was cool, but underneath the chill Larry could feel the promise of warmer days. Around them, people were joking and strolling to the bars. Across the street a man hailed a cab, which stopped to swallow him up like a hungry yellow beetle.

  Larry and Nichole held hands and walked without speaking until they reached the edge of a quiet street. They stopped.

  Looking up, they read the marquee:

  WITCHING HOUR THEATRE

  And underneath that:

  GRAND REOPENING

  “You’re sure about this now,” he said and looked at her doubtfully.

  “I’m sure,” she said. “I never got to take you up on your invitation, remember?” She grasped his arm. “And I don’t want you to think I’m a liar.”He smelled the wine on her breath and enfolded her in his arms. After peering into her brown eyes for a long moment, he kissed her. They lingered that way for a while, and when their mouths parted, their bodies remained pressed together.

  “You sure you want to marry a misfit like me?” he asked.

  “We’re all misfits, Larry. What’s amazing is how you don’t realize what a good man you are.”

  He searched her face. “The women weren’t exactly fighting over me before we met.”

  She tilted her head. “I used to stare at your ass after you visited the concession stand.”

  Larry gaped at her.

  She kissed him, smiled, and said, “Come on, sweet cheeks. Let’s head to the movies.”

  Together, they stepped off the curb.

  Clasping hands, Larry and Nichole approached the Starlight Cinema. Above the old brick building, the stars were pinprick blazes in a vast dark forest.

  “I forgot to ask you what films they’re showing,” she said as they neared the cu
rb.

  “It’s a superb lineup,” he answered. “The Hungry Survivor, which was adapted from an old Stephen King short story about a guy who gets stranded on an island and has to eat himself.”

  “Sounds artistic,” she said. “What body part does he eat first?”

  “Dog Soldiers,” he continued, “a masterpiece of dark humor and spilled entrails.”

  “Is it about German shepherds at war?”

  “And last but not least,” he said, grinning at her, “I Was a Teenage Werewolf starring Michael Landon.”

  “The guy from Little House on the Prairie?”

  “You got it.”

  “Is the film like Little House on the Prairie?”

  “More or less.”

  She nuzzled against him.

  “Can I hide my face if I get scared?”

  “Sure.”

  Nichole stopped and stared up at the marquee.

  Larry glanced back at her. “What’s wrong?”

  Still looking at the sign, she asked, “Can we skip Michael Landon tonight?”

  Larry shrugged. “I guess so. But only the lightweights leave before the third feature.”

  When her face remained serious, he asked, “Are you tired?”

  The tight line of her mouth melted into a lazy smile.

  “Far from it,” she said.

  As comprehension dawned, Larry felt his face grow hot. He looked away so she wouldn’t see him blush.

  “Still shy around me?” she asked, twining her fingers behind his neck. She breathed into the base of his throat. “Still shy. Even though you’ve kissed every inch of my body.”

  He cocked an eyebrow. “One movie might be enough for tonight.”

  “Now you’re talking.

  She drew his head down, kissed him deeply, feverishly.