Fright Club
By: Dale C. Uhlmann
Chapter 1
It was like one of those old horror movies Murray Lawton (better known as The Caretaker) had, on and off since the early 1970s, hosted on his WITC Pittsburgh Nightmare Theatre TV show. For that show, the former Pittsburgh strip club comic would dress in an all-black outfit, complete with a top hat, long, gray, straggly hair, dark glasses, and white pancake makeup. Each week he would show a collection, he would boast, of the worst grade B and C horror and science fiction movies ever made. The gruesome crime scene that morning could easily have been a part of one of those turkeys. He could not, however, appreciate the irony. He had been dead for at least twelve hours, the country coroner would later determine. He hadn't much to work with-only the man's decapitated head and a few pieces of his torso that had been found in the local park by an elderly woman walking her Scottie Terrier. The mangled body had been completely drained of blood-but by what?
The crime scene on that unusually grey and chilly mid- September morning was, in fact, eerily reminiscent of the 1961 schlock classic The Monster of Piedras Blancas, which Murray had shown many times on his In this low-budget flick, a reptilian creature tore its victims' heads off and then consume every last drop of blood from their bodies.
But this was no movie. No actor in a foam rubber suit had committed this crime, but a fiend who was still on the loose. This was the most frightening type of horror imaginable-because it was real.
Still, the line that had been blurred between illusion and reality was not lost on Murray's fellow TV horror hosts who attended his closed casket calling hours.
"Hell, I just showed that crummy movie last week," remarked Chris Polidori, a former local professional magician who had hit the local big time playing a vampire character that wore a 14th-century-style Romanian costume, long, black locks and moustache, and crown, and spoke with a cheesy Bela Lugosi accent. He had called the character Prince Vlad, and was the star of WKDD St. Louis' Fright Theatre.
"I showed that one, too," added Jon Sloan, who played a similar character named Count Vlad on WOIC TV in Kansas City-so similar, in fact, that Polidori had sued him for plagiarism. The judge, however, had ruled that all horror film hosts were essentially the same-they all wore silly costumes, performed comedy sketches, and showed old movies, and that it was impossible to tell any real difference between one and the other, or to tell who had "borrowed" from whom.
Chris, however, had never seen it that way. "I started hosting Fright Theatre, in 1975," he told a local newspaper after the verdict. "Then, about fifteen years later, along came this punk who had done some commercials as a wise-ass kid for his dad's Ford dealership. Then, when Daddy's business, which he was supposed to take over, went under, he thought he'd try the only thing he thought he was ever good at, show business.
So he stole my act, even called his crappy show Son of Fright,, and never asked my permission for anything! I don't know what that judge was thinking of!"
"Yep," the rival he regarded as his unauthorized clone, continued, "showed it about a month ago."
"Figures," Chris replied. "You never did anything original in your whole life!"
"Yeah? Eat me, Polidori!"
"Well, I remember that movie, too," remarked Lon Glendon, a former TV film and makeup artist whose twelve-year career as a werewolf character named Wolf Bane, the host of WIVC's Creature Features, in Washington, D. C., had ended when someone in the business had tweeted on Facebook that he had undergone a sex-change operation as a youth. He had always suspected that a jealous rival wanting to syndicate his or her program in the Washington market-possibly one of those who had decided to come to Murray's calling hours that day-had been responsible, although he could never prove it. Lon had always said that one of the reasons he had, ever since he was a child, identified with the mistreated monsters in horror films was because he had always, due to confusion over his sexual identity, felt "different." Moreover, he knew that, if the truth about his operation would ever come out, he would be treated-as would come to pass-as an outcast-a monster himself. Thus, he had lived a life of secrecy and deception that seemed to make playing a bizarre horror movie TV host a natural. He had since returned to a successful second career as a makeup artist in the nation's capital, and sidelined by regularly touching up the thinning and graying hairlines, and wrinkles, of local politicians wanting to look good before the public. This, he considered, just an extension of a professional life for him that had always involved illusion and deception, and he couldn't think of anything phonier than politics. He had hit the local big time playing a vampire He was touched that fans still remembered him as Wolf Bane, and that he had been invited, along with his colleagues who had gathered to pay their respects to Murray and his family, to appear at the upcoming "No.1 Horror Host" contest. This event was to be held in Milwaukee that Halloween at the Plaza Hotel, which was held, according to local legend, to be haunted. Murray himself had been one of the invitees.
But back to The Monster of Piedras Blancas, which was seemingly the only thing they wanted to talk about-that, and many of the group's petty jealousies off each other. Although all of them had paid their perfunctory respects to Murray's family before passing by his closed casket, no one had yet uttered a single warm word to the dead man's family, nor shared one fond memory with each other of their horribly murdered colleague. To Murray's widow and two grown sons, they all seemed inappropriately self-absorbed.
"Isn't that the movie," Lon continued, "about the lighthouse keeper who fed and sheltered that Creature from the Black Lagoon rip-off that tore people's heads off?" "Oh, yeah, that starred Jeanne Carmen, who was a good friend of Marilyn Monroe, as the guy's daughter," replied Tom Kraval. Unrecognizable out of costume, he was better known to WIIV TV Detroit fans of Nightmare Theatre , as Dr. Gorgo Goldblood, whose partner, Dr. Gloria Goldblood, was played by his wife, Anne Steele-Kraval. She had been a Canadian Football League sideline reporter on some games that he had been assigned to as chief camera engineer when they had met in 1995. They had then begun their horror film host career two years later when both had moved to the Motor City. The campy husband and wife mad scientist team, who wore matching white lab coats on the show, had soon caught on, and were still popular in the Midwest.
"I like those cheesy fifties and sixties B flicks," Jon chimed in. "Some of the actresses in "em weren't very good, but a lot of them had nice racks!"
Tom smiled and nodded in agreement, which drew a disapproving poke in the arm by his wife. This seemed funny, since she had never had any qualms about showcasing her own more than ample bosom week after week in a tight lab coat with a plunging neckline.
Another horror show host, Marla French, couldn't help but overhear the conversation and weigh in with her comments. "I'll bet they weren't as big as mine," she laughed. She played the extremely buxom and brassy Ghouldonna, who looked like a cross between Elvira, with her pale white makeup, grotesquely dark mascara, and blood-red lipstick, and Mae West, with her big, high platinum blonde wig that she wore over her medium-length, naturally dishwater blonde hair, and black, low-cut evening gown. A former exotic dancer, she had been hosting WKBC's Cobweb Movie, in San Francisco for the past eight years. Understandably, this program was very popular with the male viewers.
"Yeah, they're big, all right," sneered Pam Sykes. A former NBA Jazz cheerleader, she had, for the past five years, played a sassy, fast-talking African tribal queen and voodoo priestess named Cleo, whose spells and exotic recipes never turned out right, on WJKA's Fear Theatre, in New Orleans. "Them boobs have more rubber in 'em than four brand new Firestone tires!"
"Hey, this from the Botox queen!" retorted Marla.
"Keep runnin' your mouth, girl," Pam responded, "but I'm gonna kick that big bubble-butt ass of yours in Milwaukee and win that contest hands down!"
"Kick it? I've got a better idea. You can kiss it-right now!"
There was no love lost between the two women ever since Cleo's program had been syndicated in the Bay area, Marla's home turf. It was obvious that the two women did not like each other, something that seemed to delight Jon, who remarked, "Oooo, I just love a good cat fight! Hisssss!" He clenched his teeth and pointed his fingers like outstretched claws.
Both women now formed a temporary alliance against the smart ass.
"Keep out of this, asshole!" Pam warned him.
"Yeah, that's not a bit funny!" conceded Marla.
"Right, just like his act!" said Chris.
"What? You don't like my act, dude?" asked Jon mockingly.
"Only the part you didn't steal from me!" answered Chris.
"And what are you gonna do about it? Sue me again? How did that work out for you last time?"
"You fucking punk!" shot back Chris.
"Okay, let's knock it off!" said Lon. "Everybody! We're not here to dis each other, but to honor Murray. Let's show some respect, for Christ's sake!"
"That's right," Jon answered. "Show the ladies what a man you are!"
Lon stared daggers at Jon, whose obvious reference to his transgender made him wonder if he hadn't been the one who had leaked his secret to the public in the first place.
Before he could reply, Murray's sons had heard enough and, at their mother's request, kindly asked them all to leave. They then went their separate ways. Halloween wasn't far off, however, and they would renew their private wars with each other in Milwaukee, all while vying for the honor of "Number One Horror Host." There, illusion and fantasy would once more collide, and in an unexpectedly deadly manner.
Chapter 2
The whole scene at Milwaukee's Embassy Hotel later, that Halloween night, was like the Danse Macabre,or Dance of the Dead, only with a bizarre comic twist. Old medieval paintings and wood cuttings of the Danse normally depicted skeletons summoning such figures as a pope, an emperor, a king, a child, and a laborer to take part in a macabre dance to the grave. On the cobweb-adorned and dry ice mist-shrouded stage that night were no skeletons, but a full-figured, vivacious young woman named Sandy Jackson, a local radio D. J. Dressed for the occasion like the Addams Family's Morticia, she had the honor of introducing the garish collection of ghoulish pop culture icons that now took the stage. It reminded many who had turned out that night of the elementary school Halloween costume contests they had participated in as kids. One by one, Sandy introduced them as they took the stage, while playing in the background was the music to, and Vincent Price's narration of, Michael Jackson's ,Thriller.
Leading the pack was Chris Polidori as Prince Vlad. The tall, thin, John Carradine clone was brandishing a six-foot wooden stake in his arms that, if truth be told, he would have loved to have shoved up the ass of his rival, Count Vlad, who, much to his chagrin, immediately followed him. The much shorter man made an interesting Mutt and Jeff contrast with his taller clone. Although dressed in Lugosi-style white tie and tails and black cape, Jon Sloan had obviously copied the other character's long hair, mustache, and crown.
Next came Marla French as Ghouldonna, sashaying onto the stage to the tune of the 1950s Ritchie Valens' hit "Oh Donna," her big blond wig bouncing with every step.
She was followed by her rival, Pam Sykes, as Cleo. She wore a 1970s style Afro wig over her shoulder-length hair, silver earrings, and a bare-shouldered leopard print dress, and carried a rubber boa constrictor around her neck, a plastic chicken in her right hand and a voodoo doll in her left.
Now it was time for the Goldbloods to join the assemblage. Tom Kraval, as Dr. Gorgo Goldblood, wore an aqua greens surgical cap, gown, and gloves, and a pair of thick goggles. He addressed the crowd over the large center-stage microphone in his best Peter Lorre voice, "Well, hello, you interesting looking specimens, you!" Tom's wife, Anne, stood beside him as her character, Dr. Gloria Goldblood, her long back hair primly pinned up, and wearing a pair of horn-rimmed glasses, a stethoscope around her neck, and her usual white, partially buttoned lab coat.
Finally, out came Lon Glendon as Wolf Bane. The rather rotund host, in his werewolf makeup, resembled a cross between Lon Chaney, Jr.'s Wolf Man and the late Jerry Garcia of The Grateful Dead. He stepped in front of the microphone, threw his head back, and issued his trademark howl, to which the fans enthusiastically joined in unison.
"Here they are, ladies and gentlemen," Sandy announced. "Let's have a big hand-or claw-for this year's contestants!" There followed thunderous applause, after which Sandy asked, in a solemn voice, 'Mirror, mirror on the wall, whose the scariest of all?' It's up for YOU to decide!" Before she could go on, she noticed Count Vlad trying to get her attention.
"Wait a minute, everybody! I think the Count wants to say something. Go ahead, Count."
As Count Vlad approached the microphone, the crowd could see Prince Vlad muttering to himself. It's a good thing they couldn't read lips, or make out what he was saying, but if they could, they would have been surprised: "That little prick-always trying to grab the fucking spotlight!"
"I just wanted to thank 'Vincent,' the Count began, referring to the hotel's resident ghost, "for being on such good behavior lately and letting us hold the contest here tonight. I promised I'd let him M. C. my show next month as my special 'ghost host' if he'd take up some new 'haunts' this weekend."
The ghost was believed by some to have been a workman who had fallen through one of the hotel roof's skylights some forty years ago. Others swore he was the ghost of a Prohibition era gangster who had booked a room in the hotel while hiding from rival mobsters. According to the popular story, they had managed to track him down nevertheless, and kill him with a nail bomb. Others believed he was a double agent for the Soviet Union and the U. S., during the Cold War, and had been on a mission for the CIA when he had booked a room at the hotel one weekend. His body was found Monday morning, hanging from a makeshift noose in his shower stall. Still others claimed it was the ghost of a German physics professor who, during the 1970s, had been invited by the University of Wisconsin to speak about his latest discovery, the secret, he claimed, of genuine spontaneous human combustion. According to local legend, his formula worked only too well, for according to unconfirmed reports, his body was found in his room, totally burnt to a crisp, while everything else remained unsigned. There were no University records of any such invitation or professor, nor hotel or newspaper records of any such guest or incident, but that still didn't stop people from believing the story.
At any rate, ever since the 1990s, the shadow of a tall, thin man had been reported, at various times, lurking in the hotel's kitchen and hallways, along with periodic thefts and destruction of hotel and guest ipods, cell phones, and similar modern, high-tech communication devices (it was rumored that the ghost's rest had been disturbed by the electromagnetic energy generated by these modern, high-tech devices, and that he didn't like the constant chatter they created, either). He reminded many of the "opera ghost" in Phantom of the Opera,. Whoever he was, he had been nicknamed "Vincent," after the horror film icon Vincent Price, as part of a "Name the Ghost" contest held among hotel employees. The crowd laughed appreciatively, if modestly, at Count Vlad's reference to their ghostly celebrity.
"Oh," he added, "I just wanted to say, too, how badly we all feel about The Caretaker not being able to make it here tonight, but, as you've probably all heard, he kind of lost his head!"
The audience responded with dead silence. Everybody there was aware of Murray's horrible death, the grisly story having been having carried over the Internet. They all thought that the Count had crossed the line.
"What an asshole!" his colleagues thought. For his part, the Count wished he could pull a Claude Rains and disappear.
At that moment, a loud, agonizing scream broke the still lingering silence of shock and disbelief caused by Count Vlad's insensitive remark. Wolf Bane held his hairy, clawed, gloved hands up to his eyes; streams of blood ran down his face as he lost consciousness and collapsed. Instantly, two armed security guards ran to his aid. They pulled his hands away from his eyes, which were now tightly closed. Blood was dripping profusely from his pours and seeping through his makeup's thick yak hair and foam rubber appendages. His ghastly visage reminded his fellow horror hosts of the deaths depicted in director Roger Corman's 1964 horror film The Masque of the Red Death. "How appro-Poe," as Jon Sloan, whose penchant for bad puns as Count Vlad seemed to be without limits that night, would later quip.
He was rushed to a hospital, where he would undergo tests to determine the nature of this mysterious illness. In the meantime, everybody in attendance would have to be quarantined, including, of course, the guests of honor. They would discover that, by the time their stay at the Embassy Hotel had ended, only one host would indeed be still standing-but not in the manner any of them had expected.
Chapter 3
Was it the latest pandemic-or a new super-virus? Was it a biologically engineered terrorist weapon? How had Lon contracted it?-through human contact, or was it air-borne? Was everybody at risk? Characters in any number of Hollywood thrillers, from Night of the Living Dead and The Andromeda Strain, to I Am Legend, and Contagion, had asked these same questions, and eventually "The Courageous, Brilliant Scientist" would come up with the answers, and a cure. But there was no such scientist in attendance that evening-just frightened, confused people who now found real horror in place of the make-believe horror they had turned out that night to enjoy. Here they were, possibly the victims of an incurable and deadly contagion, and in a haunted hotel to boot. Each and every one of the people that evening-including the horror hosts themselves-now found themselves living right in the middle of a real horror that was assured of no happy ending, not for them or anyone else.
Everyone who had turned out that evening-guests, staff members, and, of course, the horror hosts-would have to undergo extensive blood and other testing by the State Health Board until the mysterious disease's identity could be found. The results, they were told, could take weeks, and that they had better prepare for a long stay. Tensions were bound to run high.
They had already started, between the Goldbloods (Tom Kraval and Anne Steele-Kraval). Even prior to the Milwaukee engagement, for the past few months, the sex the two shared together had seemed mechanical and routine. Now, a few nights after the Halloween tragedy had occurred, they found that nothing had changed. Neither one could climax. When it was obvious that any further stimulation or change in position would prove pointless, Tom gave up and simply laid back on his pillow in frustration. Anne turned on the nearby table lamp, reached for the remote to the hotel flat screen TV and started channel surfing through the infomercials, reality show re-runs, and washed-out prints of the same public domain movies every local station was showing all over the country. It was 5:30AM. She turned off the remote, put on a beige terry cloth bathrobe and said, "I'll think I'll call room service for some coffee."
"Wait," Tom said. He paused, thought hard and carefully, and finally said, "Anne, I think we need to spend some time apart from each other. Things aren't going well between us."
"Oh, you think so?" she replied sarcastically.
"Maybe it's been the strain of doing the show and so many personal appearances at the same time, I don't know, but maybe if we would just see less of each other for awhile, after we get out of here, maybe it would be better for the both of us."
"You know what 'would be better for the both of us,' Tom? If you stopped banging you're that public relations intern we hired in June. It's no wonder you don't have anything left for me, after fucking her during he half-hour lunch and two fifteen-minute breaks every weekday, and on weekends, during tours! Don't flatter yourself. You're forty-five, and no John Holmes!"
Tom knew she was right, and he also suspected that the girl was just interested in him because of what money or fame he had. Otherwise, he constantly asked himself, why would a "drop-dead" gorgeous babe like that look twice at an older guy with a receding hairline like his (which he had tried to correct, unsuccessfully, with an expensive hair transplant) and a now-noticeable middle-age spread? Still, her attention-as shallow and as insincere as he knew it was-he found an exciting, intoxicating ego boost. In any event, he felt he couldn't let Anne get away with the remark she just made.
"Yeah, well, you're no cougar!" he responded.
"Touchι!" she smiled. "I'll be sure to have my lawyer mention that remark in my counter-suit!
"Oh, that'll make for a great Internet story: 'Horror host couple sues each other for divorce!' What would happen to our show?-to the Goldbloods?
"FUCK THE SHOW AND FUCK THE GOLDBLOODS! The whole thing is phony anyway, just like our marriage! You don't give a shit about us! The only reason you want move out is so you can still fuck that 'just legal' slut! But you still want me to keep doing this stupid show with you! Pretending that we're still together and things are just business as usual!"
"You just said it, Anne. This is about BUSINESS, okay? Lucille Ball and Desi Arnaz still performed together, even when their marriage was on the rocks. Sonny and Cher Bono were splitsville, but The Sonny and Cher Comedy Hour, still went on! Why? Because they knew not to let personal matters interfere with business decisions!"
"I've got news for you, Tom. We ain't Lucy and Desi, and we ain't Sonny and Cher!"
"Hey, it's MONEY, Anne. We've made big bucks from this show, from our memorabilia and website to our personal appearances. That's what this whole crazy "Number One Horror Host Contest" was about, remember? And you want to throw all of that away? There's no reason to bring either the courts or the media into this."
"Okay, Tom. If this IS about money, I'm gonna protect mine. I want every bit of my share of what I've put in to this stupid act of ours!"
"Aw, come on, Anne. This is a million-dollar act that you're just gonna walk away from?"
"Hey, you think you're so fuckin' great, you do the show on your own, Just don't call yourself 'Goldblood,' or I'll sue you for copyright infringement, since I came up with that goofy name to begin with. And don't you DARE think about bringing that bimbo on as my replacement. If you do, you'll be living in the middle of a REAL horror movie when I get through with you!"
With that, Anne marched to the restroom, slammed the door, and prepared to draw her bath.
About a half-hour later, Tom, clad only in his white cotton shorts, wandered forlornly into the hotel lobby, where his fellow hosts were having breakfast. He seemed like a walking dead man, dazed, and barely coherent, evidently from shock and grief. In his arms he was carrying his wife's naked body, her once soft, pliant skin hideously scarred by third-degree burns that had eaten away one-fourth of her body.
The subsequent investigation, conducted by the hotel detective, revealed that somebody had lined the bottom of the bathtub during the night with sulfuric acid pellets. Ironically, Anne had ended up like Vincent Price's scheming, murderous wife, who had fallen into a vat of acid, in the classic William Castle shocker,EM> House on Haunted Hill. , But what was a movie and what was reality? Evidently, someone didn't care about the difference.
Chapter 4
Anne's grisly murder deeply disturbed the Number One Horror Host contestants, or "The Motley Ghoul Crue," as the Milwaukee media had named them. This was the third horror movie host to have died within a month of each other, and in ways eerily reminiscent of the films all of them had shown at least once. Following Anne Steele-Kraval's murder, Lionel Crowe, the hotel's house detective, asked all five of the remaining hosts to meet him in the lobby to answer some questions. He also had some grim news for them: Lon Glendon had died that very morning. Even more disturbing was the revelation that he had not just contracted some mysterious illness: he had been murdered. Investigation of Lon's makeup kit had revealed that it had earlier been tampered with. The Milwaukee Police Department's forensics lab had analyzed Lon's yak hair from a sample taken from his face at the hospital and found that it had been smeared with a mysterious, deadly substance that seemed similar to snake venom. Until further tests could determine if this was indeed venom from some snake, or autopsy had positively ruled out any possibility of its being some type of implanted contagion, everybody would still have to remain quarantined.
Detective Crowe, a former Milwaukee police detective, cut a bizarre figure as he paced up and down the lobby and confronted his five seated guests. He sported a large, unsightly port-wine stain birthmark (which he had never gotten lightened or removed, due to the cost of the laser treatment involved) over his forehead and a long, deep horizontal scar from a knife wound just below his right eye. A heavy, bushy, red beard covered most of the other scars on his face from a gunshot that had also cost him his left eye. He had opted to wear a black patch rather than a glass eye, for fear of losing it in a bar fight, in which he frequently seemed to be involved. One fight too many cost had cost him both his marriage and his job, but he had managed to find work with the hotel about ten years ago. All in all, in his tan overcoat and that eye patch, he looked like a cross between Columbo and a buccaneer in a sporty black Fedora. Whatever else anybody wanted to say about Crowe, he was a survivor. A lifelong smoker, he had undergone an operation, two years ago, to remove a cancerous vocal chord, leaving him with a thin rasp of a voice. But he was still here-still standing.
He had never encountered a case like this, and started his investigation from an angle he would never have considered using before.
"I'm not much of a horror film fan," he admitted. I'm more of a John Wayne Western type, so I'm going to ask you, the experts: If this were a real horror movie, how would you direct it?"
"Well," observed Pam, "I'd make the murderer one of us."
"Oh, thanks, Pam!" interjected Marla.
"Yeah, way to go, throw us all under the bus," complained Jon.
"No, let her finish," insisted Detective Crowe. "We all wanted to win the "Number One Horror Host Contest" prize. It's no Rondo, , but it would still be great publicity."
"Let me interrupt you for a moment, Miss. Pardon my ignorance, but what is a 'Rondo?,'"
It's the award given to the top horror host every year by the Rondo Society. Well, actually, it's one of several trophies awarded annually by Rondo-you know, for "Best New Horror Movie, "Best New Horror TV Series," "Best Horror DVD"-things like that."
"And why is it called 'Rondo?'",
"It's in honor of the late actor Rondo Hatton, He played a character called "The Creeper," who broke people's backs."
"Sounds like a decent enough fellow," he quipped.
"Yeah, well, in real life, Hatton suffered from Acromegaly, which kind of made him a star."
"Acromegaly? Isn't that when something goes haywire with the pituitary gland, and causes the face, neck, and hand bones to grow out of proportion?"
"Right. And busts made of Hatton's face are called "Rondos" or trophies. Everybody in our business wants one."
"I got one once," Jon boasted, with what seemed to all to be a shitty smile.
"So what do you want, a fucking cookie?" answered Chris sarcastically. "You only got one because you copied off of me."
"Hey, I'd better watch that kind of talk if I were you. Besides, let's not forget, you know a thing or two about riggin' objects and props, being a former magician and all. I'm surprised the Detective hasn't considered that, too."
Stop playing detective," said Chris, "and trying to throw me under the bus! If I were the Detective, I'd suspect you of trying to divert attention from yourself.
"Shut up, Metamucil Man!" answered Jon.
"Hey, both of you to chill out, right now!" the Detective reprimanded them, raising his raspy voice as high as it would go." "I don't need either one of you, or anybody else, trying to do my job for me. Besides, the lady here had the floor. Go ahead, Miss."
"Uh, like I said, Detective," added Pam, trying to get them all back to the point at hand, "it's no Rondo, but we'd all want it." "Bad enough to kill for it?"
"Maybe," she answered. "Greed, resentment, jealously-they can all make folks do some pretty strange things."
"Wasn't that the plot of that Vincent Price movie?" asked Marla, "Theatre of Blood?" ,
Ever seen that one, Detective?"
"No, can't say that I have, ma'am."
"Well, it's about a ham Shakespearean actor, played by Price, who fakes his own death and then kills all the critics that he blames for not voting for him as "Best Shakespearean Actor of the Year."
"So?"
"So, he and his daughter kill all the critics in ways imitating murders in Shakespeare's plays."
"Hmm, seems similar to what we may have here," he replied.
"Yeah, but I have a different idea," she replied.
"And what's that?" asked Pam incredulously.
"Has everybody forgotten that there's a ghost in this place? We don't know who he is, or what powers he might possess. He might even be some kind of demon, for all we know."
"So what are you suggesting?" Pam asked.
"Let's hold a sιance," she said, "We might be able to get to the bottom of this and appease this spirit-whoever-or whatever-it may be."
"You sure you haven't watched too many of your own horror movies? We all make our living from them, but I didn't think any of us took this shit seriously."
"Well, I do take this 'shit' seriously, and I think you-all of us-should, too!"
"Well, in all due respect, I favor the more traditional, logical approach," answered the Detective. "It may not explain everything that's been happening here, but it's a start and might explain at least one of these crimes." He then walked over to where Tom Kraval was sitting, and stared directly at him.
"Were you and your wife having problems?" he asked.
"No!"
"Were you fooling around on her maybe? Did she want a divorce? Was she going to take you for everything you and she'd put into that act of yours?
Tom couldn't figure out how the Detective had gotten so close to the truth about their impending break-up, but he was not going to let him know that.
"Where are you going with this?"
"Oh, come on, Mr. Kraval, "You knew how Murray Lawton was killed-and how Lon Glendon was struck. I'm sure you saw enough horror movies to give you your own idea for killing your wife in a way that would be blamed on the sick fuck who'd committed the other crimes-assuming you didn't those, too, for reasons of your own."
"And what would those be?"
"You tell me."
"I don't have to tell you NOTHING! You're not a police officer anymore. Besides, even if you were, I'm not under arrest. Besides, if you'd just open the one eye you have left, you'd realize that I couldn't possibly have killed her. I found her body, and I was the one who was sick out of his mind when I did! I was like a zombie when I saw her in that tub, half-eaten away-I don't even remember carrying her into the lobby I didn't even know where I was!"
"No, Mr. Kraval, I haven't forgotten. But it would be very easy to have placed those acid pellets in the bathtub yourself and to merely act as if you were in a state of shock. Showing up in just your shorts-nice touch."
"Look, for the last time, I did NOT kill Anne or anybody else-and I resent you trying to smear me!"
"Calm down, Mr. Kraval, calm down," the Detective replied, in a patronizing voice, as if he were speaking to a small child. "I guess it's just my habit, from my days on the force, to immediately suspect the surviving spouse when a wife or husband has been murdered. But you really don't have anything to worry about anyway. I'm leaning more toward the Theatre of Blood theory anyway-and for another reason."
"What's that?" asked Pam.
"Just before the night of the contest, Glendon gave me this. It had been mailed to the hotel, which he'd given out as his forwarding address."
He pulled from the lining of his tan overcoat a crude ink drawing of the Danse Macabre, but with a difference: The figures that the skeletons were summoning, one by one, to march to the grave were not the traditional medieval characters representing all walks of life at the time, but instead each of the horror hosts in their respective costumes. The pattern was unmistakable. The first was Murray Lawton, followed by Lon Glendon, and then Anne Steele-Kraval. Behind them were, in this order: Tom Kraval, Chris Polidori, Marla French, and Jon Sloan. Conspicuously absent was Pam Sykes. "Wow!' she remarked. "I guess I wasn't invited to the party!"
"Yeah, I wonder why?" asked Jon suspiciously.
"Like I said before, Mr. Sloan, "I'll handle this investigation," the Detective Crowe reminded him.
"Come on, Crowe, "Tom said. "How much stock can we really put into this? Lon got this through the mail. Okay, fine. We don't know who sent it, or when. It could have been sent out after news of Murray's, Lon's, and Anne's deaths all went public. There's no proof it was done by some killer who's trying to wipe us out, one by one."
"But Lon got this before he or your wife was killed," Jon reminded him. "Whoever made this drawing couldn't have done this before their deaths were reported."
"Well, it's just a coincidence," insisted Tom. Whatever sick fuck drew this, he just must have a vivid imagination to come up with the exact pattern that's all."
"Either that, or he's a fucking psychic," replied Jon.
"Whatever's the case, folks," the Detective told them, I'm taking this seriously, and I think you should, too. Until the 'all clear' is given, I don't think anybody should open or touch anything that he or she gets through the mail or from some source you don't trust. If that happens, bring it immediately to me-just to be on the safe side. Understood?"
They all agreed.
"That's all for now," he replied. "Thank you for time, and remember what I just said about not handling suspicious objects."
Once they were back in their rooms, each one, in his or her own way, tried to make sense out of the disturbing, cryptic message Lon had received just before his attack that tragic evening, especially Pam, who couldn't fathom why she her Cleo character had been excluded from the drawing. Was it because the killer-if it was done by the killer-had decided to spare her? If so, why? Was he a special fan who couldn't bear to send her to the morgue, too? She chuckled at that idea, but still wondered if there weren't a more sinister reason that she just could not fathom.
In any event, she decided, there was nothing she could do about it now, so she decided to take a shower. She removed her red cotton tank top and blue jeans, and then her black bra and panties. Little did she know she had an audience.
She had forgotten to close her drapes, and didn't realize that she was conducting a private strip tease for Tom Kraval, whose room was on the north side fifth floor level from hers. He had always found her attractive, and when he happened to notice her open drapes and saw her starting to prepare for her shower, he felt he couldn't let an opportunity like this pass. Besides, he reasoned, he needed some naughty fun to release his tension over the last few days and his shock over his wife's death. Anne would understand, he told himself.
Instantly, he grabbed the binoculars he had packed for the Green Bay Packers vs. Chicago Bears Monday Night Football game he had his wife had decided to take in before leaving Milwaukee). He eagerly put them to his eyes, his fingers vigorously twisting and turning the lenses to adjust the field of vision. He began to experience the most extreme erection he had enjoyed in months at the sight of Pam's voluptuous bare breasts as she unclasped and removed her bra, and at her slender but curvy figure as she stood in the middle of the room, topless. Then, as she began to pull down her panties, he worked the glasses even more vigorously; his erection continued to grow at the thought of the most private of delights she would now reveal. All that remained was the last tug that would reveal all. Just one more turn of the lenses, he thought, and
Suddenly, his eyes seemed to be on fire. Sharp pain shot through his pupils, as he screamed of torment. Instead of the lovely young black woman from afar, all that was before his eyes now was a sea of crimson-waves of his own blood that spilled out of his sockets and cascaded down his face as he dropped the binoculars to the floor. Someone had broken into his room and tampered with them, implanting a set of spring-injected, sharp steel sheaths that gouged his eyes out. That last turn had done it but something else as well.
He went numb. All sensation left his body, and he fell to the floor. A second set of sheaths at the sides of the binoculars had gone up and through both sides of his skull and penetrated his brain. He died three hours later.
His colleagues later commented that the killer had improved on the device used in the 1959 British horror film Murders in the Back Museum. , The field glasses in that film merely blinded the victim. This one would have left Tom Kraval, if he had survived, brain-dead.
Chapter 5
Fortunately, for Pam's peace of mind and dignity, neither she nor anyone else knew what had impelled Tom to use the deadly binoculars that day. As for Tom, he would at least not be exposed as a Peeping Tom, the fatal victim of his own sexual fetish. As painful and grotesque as his death was, he wasn't going to end up on the pages of The National Inquirer, as another pervert done in by his own kinky fetishes.
Still, the atrocity set off a near panic among the contestant survivors. They now felt like the characters in Agatha Christie's And then There Were None, , guests at an isolated island estate who were victimized, one by one, by a mysterious killer. Detective Crowe had warned them not to handle any strange packages or items, but Tom's death meant that the murderer had limited and open access to their rooms, and that even their own personal belongings were not safe from tampering. All hotel staff members who had passkeys were naturally questioned, but none had been on duty during the time when Tom's room had been vacant. However, one maid's set of keys were missing, and were undoubtedly in the killer's possession. Who had stolen them? For Marla, there was only one explanation.
"Vincent!" she insisted.
"Vincent? The ghost? You must be on drugs!" responded Pam.
"I'm serious," insisted Marla. He's been known to swipe things from the hotel. Why not Tom's binoculars, in order to tamper with them?"
"I've been here awhile, Miss," interjected Detective Crow, "And I've never heard of him-assuming he even exists-stealing anything like that before, much less putting steel spikes in anything or harming anybody."
"Like I told you before, who knows what he's really capable of? Marla answered.
"Why would he want to kill any of us?" asked Pam. He doesn't know us."
"Not only that," added Chris. "If you're right, how could he possibly have reached Murray, hundreds of miles away from this hotel?"
"I think it's very likely he may have powers we're unaware of," she replied.
"Bullshit!" interjected Jon.
"I don't care what any of you think?" Marla insisted. "I know there's another world out there, a word that science doesn't understand, but it's there-it exists-and we've got to find a way to contact and find out what he wants!"
"How?" Jon asked, "As if I didn't already know!"
"I told you before. We've got to hold a sιance."
"Why doesn't that surprise me?" Jon sarcastically answered. "So that's why you asked all of us to all come to the lobby tonight. Pam's right: You must be on some sort of crack!"
"Wait a minute, Sloan," interrupted the Detective. "Let's hear her out. Go ahead, Miss."
"Even if Vincent's nothing more than some lost, earthbound spirit," Marla explained, "if we can find out who he is and help him move on, maybe he can tell us what he knows about this fiend.
"Be my guest," Detective Crowe laconically replied. "Just don't ask me to be a part of it. I'm no ghostbuster."
"That goes for me too!" Jon announced.
"Why?" asked Chris. "You've got something to hide?-something you don't want Vincent to tell us? We know you're a fuckin' thief and gravy trainer. Maybe you're a killer, too."
Jon bolted from his seat and rushed at the older man, who had been dying to settle his score with Jon since they had all arrived for the contest, but Detective Crowe quickly got between the two men.
"That's enough!" he told them. "Not here-not here!"
"I'll show you, you washed-up old fart!" vowed Jon. "I'll do it anyway! Call up your spook, Marla. I'm in!"
"All right, then, said Marla. Let's do it now. Detective, I'll need a large round table and some candles."
"You got it," he said, and left to make the arrangements.
Within an hour, a walnut round table and candles had been brought to the lobby. She asked the group to move the chairs around the table and be seated while she lit the three candles placed in the center. They were now ready to begin.
"Detective, will you please turn out the lights?" asked Marla.
"Sure, I'd rather be the electrician tonight than sitting at that table right now," he replied, and did as Marla had asked. He then watched the proceedings from the far north end of the lobby.
"Now, we've all got to make our minds blank," instructed Marla.
"Well, that should be simple for you, Polidori," cracked Jon "Shut up, you ass!" answered Chris, through gritted teeth.
"Will you guys please stop your pissing match for awhile?" asked Pam. "I'm for one am damn tired of it!"
"Yes, please," insisted Marla. "Any negativity will interfere with the communication. Remember, our lives are at stake. "Now, let's all draw our hands to the center of the table, fingertips touching, and concentrate on Vincent."
They all did as they were told. Then, Marla began.
"Spirit to whom the name 'Vincent' has been given hear us. We know you are here, and we seek your counsel. Has one of us offended you? If so, how can we rectify it? If you are not responsible for these deaths, who is? How can we stop this murderer> How can we protect ourselves? If you can help us, we can help you find the rest you so desperately need. Please, give us a sign that you hear us something please."
At that moment, the cherry-red velvet curtains around the windows began to move slightly, and then started billowing, as if due to some unknown, invisible force.
"What the fuck!" exclaimed Jon. "What's moving those curtains? There's no wind in here!"
But something was moving them, and its force was causing the candles to flicker.
"I'm cold!" remarked Pam. "It's definitely chillier in here. I can feel it!"
And so could everybody else.
"This may be the sign we asked for," said Marla. "Vincent Vincent " she continued. "Is that you? If it is, please, let us know it is you. We . . ."
Marla suddenly stopped, interrupted by a strange sound that caught everybody's attention-an ominous rustling from above their heads, and the definite tinkling and shaking of glass and metal. They dreaded to look up, to verify the source of the weird sounds, but they were compelled to. When they did, their worst fears and suspicions were realized.
The hotel's large, ornate, chandelier was unnaturally swaying , moved by some unseen hand that was shaking it some violently that they all feared it would fall from its railings and crush them-as the same heavy object did to the audience in the famous falling chandelier scene from The Phantom of the Opera. ,
"Oh, my God!" cried Pam. "It's going to fall! We've got to get out of here!" "No, don't break contact!" Marla warned them, but they wouldn't listen, and bolted from their seats. Marla remained seated, determined to reason with whatever entity was causing the disturbance.
"Vincent, what are you doing? What are you trying to tell us?"
"Marla, come on!" urged Pam. "You'll be killed!"
"No!" she answered. "I've got to finish this! Vincent, Vincent?" she repeatedly called out, as the chandelier continued to sway dangerously.
Suddenly, everybody heard a deafening popping and crackling, like that of electricity, and a blinding flash of light seemed to jump from the table and envelope Marla's entire body.
She screamed in agony, and her face and hands started glowing like phosphorous.
"Marla! Marla! What is it?" shouted Chris, as her ran to her aid.
"No, don't touch her!" warned Marla.
But it was too late. The instant he touched her right shoulder, the same eerie, unearthly energy that radiated through Marla now consumed Chris, as his face and hands, like hers, began to flow violently, He, too, screamed in pain as the force coursed violently through his body then, both collapsed to the floor, continuing to glow and pulsate, even after they had died. EMS workers, whom Detective Crowe quickly called, had to handle the two bodies, now charred black, with insulated gloves.
Classic horror film fans would have instantly recognized the killer's latest inspiration: A 1941 Universal horror film called Man Made Monster,, in which Lon Chaney, Jr.'s electrically charged touch not only killed his victims, but caused them to shine like glow worms.
Pam and Jon now wondered how Vincent-if it were really he-could top this shocking feat.
Chapter 6
The Caretaker Wolf Bane the Goldbloods Ghouldonna Vlad the Impaler. All that remained of "The Motley Ghoul Crue" were Cleo and Count Vlad. Their real-life alter-egos, Pam Sykes and Jon Sloan, each felt as helpless as two victims caught between two walls closing in on each other. Adding to the fear the two felt was the suspicion that one of them very well be the killer, and that it would be only a matter of time before one would try to eliminate the other.
It was that possibility that led Detective Crowe to order both of them to stay in their rooms, until the crimes had been solved, and to absolutely have no contact with each other.
Pam paced up and down her room restlessly. Try as she might, she couldn't get the ghastly sight of Marla's and Chris' horribly glowing and charred bodies out of her mind. To settle her nerves, she decided to lie down and watch TV.
She began to channel surf with the remote to her room's plasma TV set, and ten, ironically, came upon an old movie that she herself had shown several times, a 1933 classic chiller called Murders in the Zoo. , The movie starred Lionel Atwill as a zoologist who kills his wife's lover with snake poison, and her, by throwing her into a crocodile pit. She happened upon the film's climax, where Atwill attacks hero Randolph Scott with a severed green mamba snake's head filled with deadly venom.
Suddenly, her blackberry, which she had laid on the flowered bedspread beside her, went off. She picked up the phone and answered it. On the other end was a familiar thin, raspy voice.
"Miss Sykes, this is Lionel Crowe. I know it's late, but I've got to see you immediately. Come to the lobby. I'll be waiting for you there."
"I'll be right down," she answered.
Quickly, she changed from her chartreuse cotton bathrobe into a white, long-sleeve, open-neck blouse, which she hurriedly tied around her waist. She then threw on a pair of jeans, slipped into some open-toed sandals, and rushed to the lobby as fast as she could. Had he at last discovered an important clue?-a lead?-a breakthrough in the case? She had to find out.
When she arrived at the lobby, she noticed that it was strangely empty. Confused, she called out, "Detective Crowe? Detective Crowe?"
"Hello, Pam. I knew you'd come,." came a voice from behind her. But it was not the Detective's voice.
She spun around. There, to her astonishment, was Jon Sloan approaching her, wearing a soiled-looking, black cotton T shirt with blood red, Gothic letters reading "Count Vlad on Son of Fright, , WOIC TV, Kansas City," His gray sweat pants were badly wrinkled, and his once bright navy blue and white sneakers look faded and mud-crusted. He seemed disheveled. His normally carefully clean and styled dark brown hair was oily and dirty looking, and sloppily parted on the right, not as it normally was, on the left, his face speckled with thick beard stubble. The dark circles under his eyes suggested he'd not enjoyed a good night's sleep for quite some time. All in all, he looked as if he had spent the entire night in a cement dumpster. As he grew closer, his crusty, stale body odor became noticeably stronger and increasingly noxious. He had evidently not showered lately, either. In his right hand, he was carrying a large, brown, leather valise, and in his left, a 38 caliber pistol. He stopped within inches of her, placed the valise on the white marble floor, and aimed the gun at directly her.
"You? You faked Crowe's voice?"
"It was the only way I could you come to here," he answered. Then, he motioned with the gun for her to inspect the valise. "Go on, open it," he commanded.
She did as she was told, knelt down, and open the valise. There, staring up at her, was "The Creeper" himself, Rondo Hatton, It was a Rondo, which Jon had won in 2009 as "Best Horror Film Host."
"Take it out," he told her. "It's yours."
Gripping the bust gently but firmly with both hands, Pam lift it from the valise and held before her eyes, oddly transfixed by the visage of a man whose deformity had forever immortalized him as a pop cultural horror icon. Then she placed the bust on the floor and asked, "Why? Why are you giving this to me?"
"Simple," he answered. "I don't want to die."
What?" she asked in amazement
."Come on, Pam. I knew it was you. I knew right away when I saw you weren't a part of that Danse Macabre picture. You've been doing this because you want to be number one. Okay, you win. Take the damn Rondo,. I don't want to end up like the others although I have to admit I really wasn't really sorry to see Polidori's ass fried alive. You did me a favor there!"
"Jon," she pleaded. "I don't know what you're talking about!"
"For Christ's sake, Pam!" he shouted. "Stop fucking with me! You've won! I give up! Just take that fucking Rondo and just promise to leave me alone!
"Jon, I didn't kill them! I DIDN'T!"
"Okay, you fucking bitch! I gave you your chance! Who knows what you have in store for me! My face eaten by maggots, like in Blood Feast?" ,
He shot one bullet to the right of her head, shattering a nearby window. Then he crept closer and closer, gradually backing Pam against the eggshell white plaster wall.
"Or maybe I'll go up in a ball of fire, like Karloff did at the end of, The Invisible Ray, , huh?"
He fired another shot, this one landing to the left of her and lodging itself in the plaster
."No! No!" she started to sob.
"Or maybe you'll have my flesh torn from my body, like Lugosi did to Karloff at the end of The Black Cat?" ,
"NO! NO! NO!" she screamed.
"Now, me, babe," he gloated, now practically upon her, "I prefer the simple way-a good, old-fashioned bullet-so much neater and cleaner-right between your beautiful baby blues!"
He aimed the gun at blank range. Pam prepared herself for the hot breath of gunpowder, the force of the bullet piercing her flesh, the searing pain, and then oblivion.
But then she heard the sound of metal colliding with marble, as he dropped the gun to the floor. Instantly, she opened her eyes and saw Jon reeling about in agony, holding the back of his neck. He fell against the same table at which the sιance had been held, and which had not been removed following Marla's and Chris' deaths. He struck his head on the sharp right edge, and lay sprawled over its side.
Pam stood silent in shock and disbelief, and then summoned her courage to investigate, not just from the ugly, ragged gash on his forehead, but from the very pours of his skin, just like Lon Glendon when he had collapsed that first night at the contest.
Then she saw, rising from behind the desk, much to her relief, Detective Crowe.
Evidently, she reasoned, he had heard the gunshots and had arrived just in time.
But nothing he had done, it seemed to her, had saved her. Jon had merely succumbed to the "Red Death" illness? But how had he contracted it? She wasn't sure, but she was grateful that the symptoms had seized him just at the right moment.
"Oh, Detective Crowe," she said, "Thank God! Jon went crazy. He thought I was the killer! He tried to shoot me!"
He was crazy," he agreed, with a slight smile that seemed uncharacteristically malevolent. "But I knew it wasn't you."
The Detective's answer caused a ghastly chill to run through Pam's entire body. What she had just heard was not the Detective's gratingly thin, rasp, but a full, deep voice-and one that seemed disturbingly familiar.
Cautiously, warily, she approached him. Despite her fear, she felt she had to confirm her suspicions. From the expression on his face, he seemed to be enjoying her bafflement. She looked into his face and stared deeply into his left eye. If the eyes are "the "windows to the soul," she was able to see the soul of a fiend. She could no longer deny it. He was someone she knew all to well.
"Lon!" she gasped! Lon Glendon!"
Chapter7
As impossible as it seemed, Pam could not deny the fact that it was Glendon. But how could he be alive? What had happened to the real Detective Crowe? Why had he now decided to step out of character?
"I was wondering how long which one of you brainiacs would be the first to figure out it was me underneath all this fucking makeup," he remarked, tossing his Fedora on the table stand and revealing the garish clash between his normally sandy brown hair and the fake red beard he had worn. He then started peeling away and casually dropping to the floor the foam rubber port-wine stain birthmark from his forehead, and the bits and pieces of the red yak hair beard. Finally, he removed his black eye patch. "Boo!" he tittered derisively, as he stuffed the patch into the right pocket of his overcoat.
"But how? Why?" asked Pam.
"Wow, 'how' and 'why?' he responded. Those sure are good questions, Pam! Let's start with the 'how.' All I needed to fake my own death was to use some flesh-colored plastic with heat-activated tubes filled with fake blood, and let the hot lights do their stuff. Then, it just came gushing out underneath my yak wolf hair. After they got me to hospital that first night, I disposed of an orderly with this."
He pulled from his left overcoat pocket a severed snake's head, similar to the one she had just seen Lionel Atwill use as a murder weapon in Murders in the Zoo,.
"The venom," he explained, "from this rare breed of Mamba causes the victims to bleed from the pours while destroying the central nervous system. It's real quick-acting, as Sloan here could have told you! Then, I did some makeup work on the orderly to make him look like me when they ran tests on his body, while I took his identity. I did the same thing with Detective Crowe just before that first meeting with you guys."
"I can't believe this!" Pam exclaimed.
"Why not? Because it's too incredible?-too unreal? What do you think horror movies are? They make the incredible possible-the unreal real! I've done what they've always done."
"But why, Lon? What did any of use ever do to you?"
"Oh, now we are down to the 'why.' That was quick! Well, let's start with that old cock-sucker, Lawton, the Caretaker. He got wind of the fact that my station was going to syndicate my show nationwide, starting in Pittsburgh, his home market. If it was successful there, they'd syndicate it in St. Louis, K. C., Frisco, and Detroit, too.
"The home turfs of the two Vlads, the Goldbloods, and Ghouldonna," remarked Pam.
"Right you are," he replied. "Lawton decided to nip it in the bud. I don't know how the hell he was able to do it, but somehow he managed to pay the right people in D. C. to find out something about my past he could use against me. When one of those sleazebags told him I'd once had a sex change operation, the son of a bitch practically wet his pants using his Twitter account to tweet the damn news. Then, he told the others to corroborate the story by tweeting the same thing on their own Facebook accounts. Before you knew it, my station was so pissed off over the story that they threatened to fire me if I didn't quit. So I had to. Then, when I found out I'd been invited, too, to the "Number One Horror Host" convention here, I knew I'd have a golden opportunity to get at them-all together, in one place. I have to admit, though, that I couldn't wait to get Lawton first, so I decided start with him early-maybe give them all something to think about before we got to Milwaukee. What better way to pay them back, I thought, than to use the horror movies we'd all showed? Besides, it would give me an excuse to re-surface and pin everything on my patsy-you!"
"Me?"
"Sure. Why not? After all, you weren't included in the Danse Macabre , I'd drawn up. Everybody will say, "It's because that beyatch is the murderer! Shit! That's why!" But you know, Pam, I'm almost sorry to have to do it, especially since New Orleans wasn't part of my station's syndication plans, and you weren't in on the others' little scheme, but I still need a fall guy-or fall girl, as it were. Or should that be fall person, just to be politically correct? Whatever! Anyway, like I said, I'm almost sorry-remember, that's 'almost.' Oh well, I'll get over it! I'll just console myself with the "Number One Horror Host" trophy they'll have to give me by default, since I'll be the only one left standing, after I tell them I had to fake my death to catch the true killer."
"Lon" she pleaded, "You don't have to do this!"
"Oh, yes I do," he replied. He then pulled the snake's head out of his left overcoat pocket and started walking toward her. "Like I said, this venom works fast. It'll all be over in a second or two."
"Lon, don't!"
"Don't worry, Pam. This won't hurt ya much!"
At that moment, as on the night of the sιance, the curtains on every window began to billow, despite the fact that each one was closed, and a pronounced chill enveloped the room. Then, the two heard that same, unmistakable shaking of metal and glass. They both looked up, and saw that the same invisible force as before was moving the chandelier, first gradually, and then violently. Now, however, they both heard, the pronounced straining of the iron chain that held the fixture to the ceiling, Suddenly, the heavy object's ominous, swaying shadow began to loom over the two of them, lower and lower and lower
.Lon tried to run, but something was grabbing him by the shoulders and keeping him in place. His eyes and mouth widened in horror as the chain started to snap and the chandelier began to tilt downward. Then he heard one last, long, metallic-sounding groan.
"No!" He cried out! "Let me go! Let me go!"
These were the only words he had any time to utter. The chandelier silenced him forever, falling on top of him and crushing him to death on contact.
Pam, perspiration running down her face and chest, stared in horror at the remains of the metal juggernaut that covered Lon's horribly bloodied, mangled body. "Like Phantom of the Opera," , she gasped.
"Yes," she heard a man's voice softly whisper in her ears. "Just like Phantom of the Opera." ,
"Who who are you? She asked. "Are you Vincent?"
"If that's what you want to call me, yes," the voice slightly laughed, not diabolically, but gently.
"My real name is Erik-Erik Raines. I was a stage hand here when this place was a theatre-before it became a hotel. In the twenties, we ran silent movies. The last one we ran-the last one I ever saw-was Phantom of the Opera,, with Lon Chaney. God, I loved the Phantom. I felt sorry for him because he was different. Well, I guess I felt different, too. You see, Miss, I was like you."
"You mean you were black?"
"Yes, although the word was 'colored' back then. A lot of folks weren't happy with me living and working here. One night, after I closed up after our Saturday night show, Sally, our organist, was having trouble with her car. It wouldn't start, so I went to help her. Then, two cops, both white, saw me and, because she was white, too, jumped to the wrong conclusion. Sally tried to tell 'em I was just helping her, but they wouldn't listen, and started clubbing me on the head. Before I knew it, I was down on the ground and just about out of it, but I heard one of them tell Sally to give him her keys to the theatre, and to keep her mouth shut-or else. They must have thought I was dead, because they took me down to the basement and threw me in a hole they drilled in the cement floor. Then, I must have passed out. When I came to-it may have been days later, I don't know-it was all dark, and I could feel this huge weight pressing against my face. They must have laid a fresh layer of concrete over the top of the hole. My chest hurt from trying to breathe air where was none! And then the maggots came and the rats!" He started to sob.
"Oh, my God!" exclaimed Pam. "You poor soul!"
After it was over, I gave out, but even though I'd passed on, I couldn't leave this place I don't know why. Something was keeping me here. I tried to make the best of it I tried to rest, but I couldn't. Things got busy here, and after awhile, there was too much change too much noise too much commotion. Then all these new contraptions came phones you can carry with you, and other newfangled toys. I had to check 'em out, to see what folks were using now and why. All of you had a lot of nice things I never had, but from what I've seen, they haven't made you any happier. The same old troubles I saw back then are still here jealousy hatred, I've seen a lot of bad things since I've been stuck here, like that night when all of you tried to contact me. I shook the chandelier, to warn everybody there to get away, before it was too late. This time, if I could, I was gonna do more than warn you. I'd been workin' on that chandelier ever since that night-with a little hacksaw I took from the maintenance department. All it took was a little shove this time. But I had to do it I had to save you. I think that's the reason, maybe, I'm still here. For some reason, it was meant to be that I had to stay here-to find you. Miss, I I love you"
"What?" she asked, stunned by this revelation.
"You you remind me of a girl I knew back when tall beautiful elegant. She was the daughter of the principal of the colored school I went to. So she was out of league, but I worshipped her. She was like a queen to me. And you you have that same look that same balance when you walk that same elegance. And like you, she was feisty, not afraid to speak her mind. I like that. I liked it in her and I like it in you. I want you to stay here to be with me but only if you want to. I promise, I'll treat you right, and ain't nobody here you have to cow tow to. You'll be the queen of this place. But only if you say so."
Pam considered what he had said and reflected on her own life. Too many times, she felt, she had had to sacrifice her will her dignity in order to have the same opportunities everybody else had. She was black and she was a woman, and, despite what the twenty-first century was telling her on one hand, it was still not a totally equal playing field., at least not in the entertainment industry. She had had to sell, not so much her abilities and talents, but her looks, her figure, in order to be an NBA cheerleader. Even in her role as Cleo, although she always tried to endow the character with intelligence and cockiness, her production manager still insisted she wear the most low-cut and revealing costumes possible on the show. "Sex sells." She knew that. She accepted it-but she still didn't like it. And unlike men, she had always had to watch what she said in order to not come off as "uppity," or even "bitchy." She realized she was tired of the game. Maybe what Erik was offering her was what both of them needed.
"I'll do it," she said.
"Then take the snake's head. And we'll be together."
She walked over to what was left of Lon Glendon. There, near the wreckage of the chandelier, was the Mamba's head. She took in her hands, pried open its mouth, and placed the fangs to her right wrist. Then, she clamped the head down, and felt the sharp fangs penetrate her flesh. She began to feel light-headed, and then, after a few short seconds, it was over.
Chapter 8
Two years later Following the discovery of Lon Glendon's body, and the revelation that Pamela Sykes had been his last victim before he had been crushed to the death by the chandelier, the case was now closed. Due to the official identification of the Mamba's lethal, but non-contagious venom, the quarantine was lifted, and the hotel reopened. It had been, for the past few years, business as usual-including the usual electronic communications devices thefts by the ghost, Vincent. But now there was also evidence of another presence as well-A second figure, a woman, often seen walking side-by-side the mysterious tall, thin man.
That night, the cast and crew of the popular paranormal TV reality series Ghost Hunt , decided to investigate the hotel's hauntings themselves. The crew's ultra violet camera managed to capture an extraordinary sight: Fuzzy, but still visible were, undeniably, two figures. One was a black man, in his early twenties. The other was a woman, also black, whose face seemed vaguely familiar to the crew. They enhanced the picture as much as they could and, while he could not be absolutely certain, the crew's leader, who had grown up in New Orleans, thought that she bore more than a passing resemblance to someone he had seen on local TV at that time. If he didn't know any better, he said, she looked like Cleo Pam Sykes.
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