Come The Night
By
Ian Watson
Copyright 2016 Ian Watson
***
License Notes
This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this eBook with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to the vendor of your choice and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
***
By The Same Author
MIDNIGHT SPOOKSHOW
WATCHING PORN WITH LEATHERFACE
BLOOD SEX & SCOOBY SNACKS
MIDNIGHT MOVIE MADNESS
SICK IN THE HEAD
***
Part 1
FATHERS’ DAY
On Fathers’ Day, Craig Friedman flew Boston-Houston and took a cab into Dallas. The cabbie was quiet for most of the journey, sizing him up in the rear-view mirror. Wondering if Craig was who he thought he was.
Craig avoided eye contact, secretly enjoying the attention. He didn’t say anything until they neared Dallas, then he started making chitchat, asking if there was anywhere good to eat. It was the excuse the cabbie had been waiting for.
“You’re Richard Friedman’s boy, ain’t you?” the guy said. “Look just like him.”
“What’s it to you?”
“Been wondering,” the cabbie said, and shrugged. “You here for Fathers’ Day?”
“That’s right.”
“Is it a, ah, social visit?”
“Strictly business.”
“Good for you.” The cabbie looked satisfied. “Lot of people be glad to hear that.”
“I know,” Craig said.
He paid and walked to the diner the cabbie told him about, which had emptied by the time he arrived. There was just one waitress, cleaning tables. Darla. The cabbie said she knew all there was to know about Richard Friedman.
Craig introduced himself, which was all the incentive she needed to let rip. He listened as she tore into his old man, even though the details were familiar. They’d been shocking at first, but repetition had dulled the effect.
“You can’t be his boy,” Darla said. “You’re too decent. When’d you last see him?”
Craig shrugged. “Maybe eight years, maybe more.”
“Remember much?”
“Enough.”
“Well, he’s had plenty fun in the meantime. He likes to carouse, your daddy. Likes to sow his oats. Except he’s also careless, you know? Doesn’t let other people’s problems bother him, even if he’s the one caused them.” She thought a while, and said: “Somebody musta taken you away early enough.”
“My mother,” Craig said.
“She sounds like a good woman.”
“She was. A few months back, she passed.”
“Sorry to hear that. Your daddy attend the funeral?”
Craig said nothing.
She met his gaze, and said, “You know, it’s Fathers’ Day. Got something special planned?”
“Yes,” Craig said.
She smiled. “Have a good one, you hear?”
It was mid-afternoon when Craig left the diner and walked to the Holiday Inn. In a perfect world, his father would’ve given him up by now, maybe started drinking already.
He rapped on the door of cabin 108 five times, his signature knock, and as the girl let him in, he saw how she’d changed after living with a bully. There were bags under her eyes. She seemed submissive, dour.
“Were you followed?”
Craig shook his head.
She shrugged. Her name was Sally, she wasn’t yet twenty, but already Richard Friedman had sucked the life right out of her.
Craig said, “He hit you again?”
She sighed.
“Does he suspect anything?”
“I don’t think so. He’s been waiting for you all day,” she said. “He’s rented a little place in Austin, but everything’s in my name. I don’t think he’s even left it during daylight. You know, you’re all he’s spoken about this past month.”
“Good,” Craig said. “How long to get there?”
It took two hours.
Craig stared at an eight-bed, three-bath Meditteranean-style house with pale-yellow walls, a Porsche in the drive. A little place, he thought. He was speculating where the money had come from when Sally spoke up, shattering his reverie.
“He’s likely dead drunk by now,” she said. “He usually starts before five p.m.”
Craig checked his watch, then looked at the house. No lights were on, no TV. He opened the glove compartment.
As he reached inside, Sally said, “This wasn’t always legal on Fathers’ Day, was it?”
Craig didn’t respond.
He left the car and began walking towards the house, cocking back the hammer on his father’s present as he did so.
Part 2
LEATHERFACE’S REQUIEM
The sessions were supposed to be about confronting your demons, defeating them and moving onward, toward the light at the end of the tunnel or whatever, but as he watched his friends humiliate themselves for the umpteenth time, Leatherface had never wanted a drink more badly in his life.
Setting his decaffeinated coffee aside, he laced his fingers across his chest and thought about how he’d rather be at home, getting wasted watching Barney The Purple Dinosaur, when Jason started crying again.
Krueger, the bully. All he ever did was pick on Jason, just because they had a history. As usual, Megatron laughed and made obscene gestures while John Ryder, aka The Hitcher, stared straight ahead, saying nothing.
This wasn’t right. They’d killed more teenagers than Donald Rumsfeld, caused more nightmares than Michael Jackson and become legends in their respective communities, but now they were reduced to this? Court appointed rehab where all they did was mope?
Leatherface shook his head. His personal decline had been slow and steady, he’d seen it coming, and when the chili finally hit the fan, he realized there wasn’t a booze bottle big enough to silence the voices of regret in his head.
If only he’d never trusted Michael Bay. That sumbitch had convinced him to sell out his beliefs and sign on to appear in a bunch of crappy flicks that nobody – not the fans, not the filmmakers, not even Leatherface hisownself – liked or believed in. Okay, so they made a ton of dough, but what good was that when folks started throwing garbage at you?
Christ, even President Obama sent him a shit in a sock.
To top it all, Bay threw him away when their last collaboration underperformed and moved on to courting Freddy and Jason, treating them in much the same way. He didn’t need ask about their experiences, not with Jason in tears and Freddy punching the walls, as he was now.
Leatherface decided to lighten the mood.
“Got a joke for you,” he said.
Which threw off Freddy’s concentration. He turned, did a double take, and said, “My God, it speaks.”
“Satan walks up to Michael Bay and says, ‘Would you sleep with me if I gave you $20 million, a Lear jet and a fleet of sports cars?’ Bay looks at the Prince of Darkness and doesn’t hesitate: ‘Absolutely!’ So Satan says, ‘How about if I gave you ten dollars, a pack of Doritos and ten percent of the net?’ Infuriated, Bay says, ‘What kind of filmmaker do you take me for?’ ‘We’ve already established that,’ Satan tells him. ‘Now we’re negotiating the price.’
Silence.
“You don’t think that’s funny?”
“That,” Megatron said, “was a little too
close to what Hollywood calls ‘based on a true story.’”
“Sorry.”
“What he’s trying to tell you, kid,” Freddy said, “is that you don’t point and laugh at car wrecks. Especially when it’s your car.” He shrugged, then added, “Or career.”
The room fell silent.
Jason began crying again.
Sighing, Leatherface removed an AA card from his pocket. The five words, printed in bold type, had become his mantra.
One Day At A Time.
***
Every night after beating off, Leatherface dreamed about Erebus, the primordial deity. One of the first five beings in Creation, Erebus was born of Chaos and brother to Nyx, or Night, with whom he made several little deities that probably had an uneven number of fingers and toes.
Leatherface didn’t know how he knew this, he just knew, same as he knew a primordial deity was one badass you didn’t want to mess with.
What he didn’t get was why the sucker entered his head every night, moments after he finished pleasuring himself over Jessica Biel in a wet t-shirt. That wasn’t just rude, it was downright disturbing. Suppose he was working his rod and Mr Personification of Darkness popped in to say howdy? Wood was in short supply these days, and if some uninvited guest kept invading his personal space, he’d be whittling on a matchstick before long.
In the dream, Erebus usually manifested himself as some faceless dude in a suit who talked at length about death but never said anything Leatherface could remember. Tonight, though, not only did he remember the deity’s words, he also got to see his nemesis up close and personal, confirming what he’d long suspected.
Erebus was Michael Bay.
Putting his hands on Leatherface’s shoulders, Erebus/Bay looked him in the eye and said, “Do you know where you are?”
Leatherface looked around. The landscape was flat, grey and uninviting.
“New Jersey?”
“This,” Erebus/Bay said, “is where you come after death.”
And Leatherface woke up.
Woke up screaming.
***
They found the body later that morning.
John Ryder, aka The Hitcher, wore silk stockings, lipstick and a cheap blonde wig. There was an amyl nitrate-laced lemon slice in his mouth and a length of rubber hose around his throat.
He’d been watching The Fast And The Furious.
“Did he say anything to anyone?” Leatherface said.
“Dude didn’t say anything, period,” Megatron said. “He was kind of a cold fish, you know? I asked where he was from, and he said, ‘Disneyland.’”
A tear rolled down Jason’s hockey mask.
“Aw, Christ,” Freddy said, “here we go again.”
“Why can’t you leave him alone?” Leatherface said.
“Hey, if he acts like a little baby and blubbers like one, that’s the way he’s gonna get treated, all right? Ain’t my problem he isn’t made from sterner stuff.”
“Lay off him. The kid had it rough.”
“We’ve all had it rough, Chief. That’s why we are who we are. But there’s only one of us lives alone with his momma’s head in the fridge. Even by my standards, that’s kinda messed up.”
“You wanna talk messed up?” Leatherface jerked a thumb at Ryder’s body. “I got messed up. Anybody find a note yet?”
“On the bathroom mirror,” Megatron said.
Leatherface glanced across the room. Written in lipstick on the glass was a single word.
Erebus.
“It wasn’t an accident,” Leatherface said.
“Say what?” Megatron said.
As he explained the dream, Freddy chuckled softly.
“Something funny, Krueger?”
“Remember who you’re talking to about dreams, numbnuts. Ever hear the expression I wrote the book on this?”
“Hurray for you,” Megatron said. How’re we gonna report this?”
“Find an orderly, stupid.”
“I haven’t seen one since we arrived. Have you?”
Freddy opened his mouth to say something, then swallowed it.
“I hear what you’re saying,” Leatherface said. “Neither have I.”
“Isn’t that just a tad unusual?”
“No more unusual than five guys who’ve been spat out by Michael Bay finding themselves together in a room. I don’t think it’s a coincidence that we’re all here. And I don’t think the dream was just a dream.”
“Okay.” Megatron exhaled. “So if we’re not in rehab, where are we?”
“The Waiting Room.”
“For what?”
Leatherface spread his hands.
“Hell, of course.”
“We’re already dead?”
Freddy burst out laughing.
“No offence fellas, but I think I mighta noticed.”
“No, it makes perfect sense,” Megatron said.
“It does?” Freddy looked at Jason. “What do you think?”
Jason shrugged.
“Look at it,” Leatherface said. “We’ve all worked for Michael Bay, which is a kind of death. Now we’re just waiting for Charon.”
Freddy’s eyes narrowed. “Who?”
“The son of Erebus. According to Greek myth, he’s the Ferryman who transports souls to the land of the dead.” Leatherface swallowed. “Our next destination.”
They absorbed this.
“Biggest load of bullcrap I ever heard,” Freddy said.
“Come on, Krueger. We’ve all been in movies with dumber plots.”
“Aw, blow it out your ass, wise guy. You are not blaming me for Freddy Vs Jason.”
“I can prove it to you,” Leatherface said. “If this is a real clinic, I mean, if we’re here of our own volition, then the doors are unlocked and we’re free to leave.”
“Sounds good to me,” Megatron said.
Freddy crossed his arms.
“Show me,” he said.
***
Freddy grabbed the door handle.
“Doesn’t matter what’s on the other side, does it?” he said. “Whatever it is, one of us is a loser.”
“Sounds about right,” Megatron said. “You ready?”
Krueger exhaled. Shaking his head, he tightened his fist around the handle and pushed down.
Yanked the door open.
Stood in the doorway awhile, luxuriating in the late summer sunshine.
“Well, bless my ass,” he said. “The door was just a door. What’re the odds?”
Leatherface didn’t buy it. Too neat, too convenient.
He opened his mouth to say something when the shadow fell across Krueger’s face.
Freddy looked up, startled, as the hand burst through the doorway. The talon-like fingers curled around him, making a giant fist that, seconds later, whisked him away.
His final words turned the air blue.
“Time to leave,” Megatron said.
Leatherface stared at him.
“What good will it do?” he said.
Cracks spread across the ceiling, plaster raining on their heads. The roof disappeared, giving way to brilliant sky, the sun bright enough to throw the creature’s advancing shadow across the room. Shielding his eyes, Leatherface stared at the Ferryman.
Charon had manifested himself as the fiercest and most remarkable creature possible: a thousand eyes, a dozen arms and a mouth full of razor sharp teeth. Fire issued from its mouth and snout, its leathery wings flapping eagerly.
Leatherface had to admit, he was impressed.
Somewhat less enthused was Jason who, having backed himself into a corner, blubbered as the wall collapsed under Charon’s fist. He was still blubbering when the fingers closed around his head and yanked him out of the room.
Another hand descended towards Leatherface, effortlessly scooping him up. As Charon tightened his grip, and Leatherface pr
epared himself for what he hoped was a long journey, a thought occurred.
Death sure beat working for Michael Bay.
Part 3
HONEY BUNNY
Sean Roberts had always been a jerk. Crashing the car didn’t change that, it just made Kelly want to kill him sooner than she’d planned.
The Ford bridged the gap between the end of the road and the swell of an embankment. The damage was negligible, so the car was likely driveable, but good luck getting it free without a tow.
Good luck getting a truck out here after dark.
“Nice,” Kelly said. “Good going.”
“If the road was dangerous,” he said, “there should’ve been signs.”
Kelly rolled her eyes.
She started to say something, then swallowed it, knowing that whatever she threw his way would bounce right off. Sean was one of those pinheads who charged through life with bull-in-a-china-shop finesse, letting nothing bother him. If he was overdrawn, it was the bank’s fault. If he hit someone while drunk, it was the cops’ fault for not stopping him.
If he crashed their ride despite driving at thirty mph on a straight road with a full moon to guide him, it was because there were no signs.
One day, he’d be found in a shallow grave with a marker that read A Useless Asshole – But It Wasn’t His Fault. And that day was fast approaching.
She was ready to kick a dent in the shotgun door when she heard a car engine and looked up.
A battered pick-up dawdled towards them, headlights dipping as it screeched to a stop. The door popped open and an old man, fat and bearded, stepped out and walked over.
He looked at the Ford, then looked Kelly and, being the astute type, said, “You’re stuck.”
“That we are,” Kelly said.
“You don’t want that. Not way out here.”
“So I gathered. You give us a tow?”
“Sure, why not? I got eleven of them.” He let that sink in, then added, “Little backwoods humour.”
“Huh,” Kelly said.
“Living out here, people think we’re inbred.”
“Imagine that.”
“You’re gonna need a rope,” he said.
“Nothing gets past you, does it? Yeah, we need a rope. You got one?”
The man shook his head.
“Nope,” he said. He looked crestfallen. “I could probably get one, though.”
“That would be a start.”
“Only problem is, it’s back at the house, and I live about ten miles from here. If you think it’d be quicker and easier to call a truck, you might want to do that.”