Horror Show Read Online Free PDF Page B

everything.”
    The old man’s conversation had a peculiar kind of logic to it once Clint began to recognize the pattern. There could be only one topic, whether he talked about the bats, the film industry, Buzzy Haller, the IRS, or dead bodies. The topic was fear. Landis Woodley appeared obsessed with it.
    Fear. Clint was the addict, and Woodley the dealer.
    â€œNobody ever found out, of course, and we all took an oath of silence. The shoot was wrapped up in three days, and that was it. The censors were all over that picture, though, as if they knew something, which they didn’t. I had to cut some stuff, but we still outbloodied National. RKM was happy, and we brought home a winner.
    â€œ Cadaver was your apex?”
    Woodley nodded. Outside the windows the sun was setting. He’d noticed the lengthening shadows and the diminishing light before Clint and was reveling in it. In the dark he came alive.
    Woodley leaned forward. “It’s a hell of a world, isn’t it? When the pinnacle of a man’s life’s work is a low-budget horror movie full of real corpses.”
    He looked at Clint as if he expected a response. Clint remained silent.
    â€œYou want to see some footage?”
    Clint cocked his head. Did he hear that right? Did the old man want to show him some film?
    â€œI got some outtakes, some footage the censors made me take out. They said it was too gory, not suitable for public viewing. Those wimps, they used to run this town. Shit, you couldn’t even say the word ‘sex’ until 1967. I got some great stuff, Buzzy and the corpses at the morgue, some mutilation stuff …”
    Mutilation stuff? Clint almost said something, then caught himself. What had they been doing down in the abattoir? Carving people up?
    â€œSure, I’d love to;” he heard himself say. “Can I bring a photographer?”
    The thought of watching those grainy old black-and-white films, full of real corpses, alone in this house with the old man made him uneasy.
    â€œNo, no photographers, just you.”
    Clint looked a shade doubtful and the old man picked up on it. “I’ve got stills, posters, half-sheets, lobby cards, scripts, everything, your article would really kick some butt. Maybe you could make some real money. You want to make money, don’t you, kid?”
    Clint nodded.
    â€œGood, thought so,” Woodley rasped. “You’ve got a hell of a start. Come back tomorrow night, nine o’clock. I’ll show you some shit that’ll make your hair stand up.”
    Landis busied himself pouring another shot of booze.
    A strange noise knifed up from below. Clint was about to turn off his tape recorder and end the interview when the sound froze him. It sounded like a moan, a painful, horrible, half-human moan.
    â€œWhat the hell was that?” Clint asked.
    Woodley’s face blanched. The sound had clearly alarmed him as well.
    He spilled a portion of his drink on the already-stained rug at his feet. His head turned to one side, like a dog listening to a violin. The moan came up again, low and pitiable, from beneath their feet. It was the most unpleasant and disconcerting sound that Clint Stockbern had ever heard.
    â€œWhat is that?” he asked again.
    Clint stood up, suddenly acutely aware that it was no longer light outside.
    Landis looked up at him. He was still seated, still in denial.
    â€œYou heard it, too?”
    Clint nodded.
    â€œChrist, I thought I was the only one,” Landis growled. “I thought it was in my mind.”
    Clint surveyed the room. The bats were still. Only the sound of the moaning disturbed the quiet. It came again, the low frequency of it raising Clint’s blood pressure another few notches.
    Landis rose slowly from his chair. His hands trembled even as they grasped the arms. His fingernails, Clint noticed, were too long. Their color was an unhealthy yellow.
    Woodley looked to the hallway, his mind far