Fright Night Read Online Free PDF Page A

saying.
    There was a squat, ill-kept hedge running the length of the driveway, neatly dividing the properties. The neighbor’s lawn had grown wildly out of control where it hadn’t died. Weeds choked the base of the house, partially obscuring the basement windows (which you couldn’t see through anyway, dammit!), the long-forgotten coal chute . . .
    . . . and the storm doors.
    Where they took the coffin.
    Charley’s feet were moving before his brain had told them, carrying him across the driveway before he had a chance to argue. Not that he would have put up much of a fight.
    He had to know what was going on.
    And there was only one way to do that.
    (Fuck Fright Night, Chucko. We got a real monster here!)
    He had left his books piled in the driveway and pushed his way through the hedge. The yard looked even worse from the other side. He cast a wary glance around, his own house looking like an oasis of cheerful suburbia, and crept toward the storm doors.
    Charley climbed onto the doors and tried to peek in the windows. No such luck; there were curtains or blankets or something on every window on the first floor.
    He jumped down and studied the storm doors. They were the big, heavy, steel lean-to type, very rugged and almost as old as the house itself. He grabbed the handle and gave it a tug.
    No chance. There was a brand new cylinder lock installed. One of the fancy ones, a Fichet or something, the kind that folks who live in big cities might need. But in this neighborhood? he thought. Nobody needs security like that around here.
    Unless they’ve got something to hide.
    He was about to get on his knees and check out the basement windows when the voice stopped him dead in his tracks.
    “Hey, kid! What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
    If he’d eaten lunch, he probably would’ve thrown up. The voice wasn’t just stern; it wasn’t just harsh. That voice was cold: the kind of voice that says I’ve killed people for less than that and means it most sincerely.
    Charley put on his most casual face and turned around. He quickly wished he hadn’t.
    The source of the voice was, beyond any doubt, one of the coffin-carrying neighbors. He looked like a cross between Harrison Ford and Anthony Perkins: rugged, angular features and deep eyes under prominent eyebrows.
    Those eyes. Cold. Incalculable. Any pretense to attractiveness ended with those eyes. He moved a little closer. Charley instinctively backed up, almost tripping over the storm doors. He was very close to panic, fumbling for an excuse.
    “Ah, n-n-nothing,” he stammered.
    The man was dressed in work clothes, a carpenter’s apron around his waist. He held a large claw hammer in his right hand, gesturing with it, dripping casual menace. He smiled; rather, his lips skinned back to reveal perfectly even teeth. There was no affection in it. His eyes remained unchanged.
    “See that it stays that way, kid. Mr. Dandrige doesn’t like unexpected guests.”
    “Uh, yessir, you bet, no problem.” Charley fumfuhed a few seconds more, trying like hell to be nonchalant when part of his brain kept screaming don’tkillmedon’tkillmedon’t . . . He beat as graceful a retreat as possible, under the circumstances, cold sweat trickling down his back as he plowed through the hedge.
    When he dared venture a look back, ever so casual as he stopped to retrieve his books, the man was gone. The house seemed just a little darker, more hulking, more . . . dead.
    He hoped it was just his imagination.

SIX

    T he Marine Corps Band pumped its last majestic chords, the Blue Angels arced in tight formation into the sunset, and Charley’s head tipped back, mouth open in a full-throated snore.
    Channel 13 signed off for the night. Flickering snow filled the TV screen—the only light in the room.
    He was supposed to be on stakeout. He was not very good at it. No stamina. He had set it up well enough: lights out, a nice comfy chair, the binoculars and a well-stocked store of munchies.