Fright Night

  It is hungry

  It is thirsty

  It lives next door to Charley Brewster

  Charley has seen the coffin and the bodies drained of blood. He knows he will be the vampire’s next victim. But no one will believe him: not the police, not his girlfriend Amy, not even the school weirdo, Evil Ed. Charley’s last chance is to enlist the help of Peter Vincent, Vampire Killer, star of a hundred horror movies and host of TV’s

  Fright Night.

  Nobody thinks he’s telling the truth—until Evil Ed becomes a vampire and Amy is dragged into his next-door neighbour’s evil, foul-smelling house of death!

  FRIGHT NIGHT

  Charley popped open the Coke can and swigged heavily. He was locked in mid-swallow when the scream slashed a hole in the night.

  Carbonated sugar-water sprayed through the air, spattering the desktop, books and papers with a million wet splotches of brown. He choked; tears flooded his eyes. By the time he recovered, the scream was long gone. It had only lasted a second.

  But it was still ringing in his mind’s ear, a single bright bauble of terrified sound, one second of horror that twitched in the air.

  And then silence.

  Total, terrible silence.

  COLUMBIA PICTURES PRESENTS

  A VISTAR FILMS PRODUCTION

  A TOM HOLLAND FILM

  “FRIGHT NIGHT”

  CHRIS SARANDON • WILLIAM RAGSDALE

  AMANDA BEARSE • STEPHEN GOFFREYS

  and

  RODDY McDOWALL

  Visual Effects by

  RICHARD EDLUND, A.S.C.

  Produced by

  HERB JAFFE

  Written and Directed by

  TOM HOLLAND

  A Star Book

  Published in 1985

  by the Paperback Division of

  W. H. Allen & Co. PLC

  44 Hill Street, London W1X 8LB

  First published in United States of America

  by Tom Doherty Associates in 1985

  Copyright© Columbia Pictures Industries, Inc. 1985

  Printed and bound in Great Britain by

  Anchor Brendon Ltd, Tiptree, Essex

  ISBN 0-352-31800-7

  ONE

  Charley Brewster wasn’t sure where the inspiration behind bra clasps came from. If God were responsible, then clearly he wasn’t meant to fondle Amy’s naked breasts, in which case he should feel guilty as hell. If, on the other hand, the devil were behind it, then God clearly approved of bared-bosom explorations, in which case it was his sacred duty to go about it with all speed.

  Charley gave this weighty philosophical question a full second of his undivided attention. Then he went back to struggling, sneakily, with the goddam clasps. Whoever was behind it had done an impressive job. Breaking into Amy’s treasure chest was harder than breaking into Evil Ed’s gym locker.

  And Amy wasn’t making it any easier. She clearly believed that God had secured her bra tightly around her for a reason. One tiny chunk of his brain could sympathize: she was simply being stronger, and more righteous, than he. The rest of him wished that she would just cut it out, because he wanted Amy Peterson so bad that it hurt.

  They were grappling on the floor next to Charley’s bed, a couple of throw pillows cushioning their heads and shoulders. Charley was slightly on top, a half-hearted attempt at the dominant male position. She wouldn’t let him mount her completely. Her hips had ground against his at one point, however—he was sure of it—and the one overriding thought in his head was, If I do this right, I’m gonna make it, gonna make it, gonna . . .

  His right hand swept nonchalantly along her naked back. She tensed as it neared those hateful hooks. He veered to the left, moving up to take her shoulder beneath the buttoned blouse. You’re not fooling anyone, you know, he could almost hear her thinking.

  Throughout it all, they continued to kiss: tongues describing loop-dee-loops, lips nearly spot-welded together. If she didn’t want him to go any further, she also didn’t want him to stop. Her hands were under his shirt as well, and he noticed that they’d hit his nipples a couple of times without being struck by lightning.

  Dammit, this is stupid, he silently muttered. Then Amy did something particularly nice with her mouth, and he lost himself in the kiss for a minute.

  Self-consciousness returned with the soundtrack music. Spooky strings—foreboding, swelling—in accompaniment to the stilted dialogue from the three-inch speaker of his portable TV:

  “Oh, darling.” Young, male, slightly effeminate, British. “Darling, darling, darling. I can’t tell you how frightfully much I’ve missed you.”

  “Yes, Jonathan.” Young, female, also British, with the cool and cheesy theatrical creepiness of the living dead, circa 1945. “It’s so marvelous to see you again.”

  “You are so beautiful tonight, my love. Your skin, so soft and white. Your lips, so red and . . .”

  “Yes?” A short pause. Then, wickedly, “Would you like to kiss them?”

  The music reared its corny head, melodramatically mounting in intensity. Jesus, Charley thought, lips still grinding on Amy’s. The movie made him feel suddenly ridiculous, his clownish insecurities blown up to the size of floats in the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade. They probably aren’t even opening their mouths, he added sourly. It’s stuff like this that makes us so hung up.

  He steeled himself for a moment, then decided to go for broke.

  Amy wriggled beneath him as he went for her bra clasp with both hands. Her hands grabbed him just below the armpits and tried to push him away. He held on tenaciously, arms wrapped around her, desperately wrenching at the miserable elastic. The hooks held tight. He began to suspect that she’d glued them closed. She was beating on his back now. There was no time to lose. Charley made one frantic last-ditch effort, and—

  “STOP, O CREATURE OF THE NIGHT!”

  The voice was deep and commanding. It was also coming from the TV set. Charley responded to it anyway, freezing just long enough for Amy to successfully push him away.

  On the screen, the vampire hissed.

  “God damn it,” Charley moaned, and his gaze flickered over to the screen. The beautiful vampire woman was backing away from Peter Vincent, teeth bared. The fearless vampire hunter advanced, a wooden stake in one hand and a prodigious mallet in the other.

  “I’ve come for you,” the hero said.

  Peter Vincent was tall and foreboding, his gaunt features taut beneath his stovepipe hat. Everything about him was dire and sober, from his black suit and cape to the smoldering darkness of his eyes.

  Amy Peterson, on the other hand, was cute and cuddly. She had a wholesome face and a wanton body; they mirrored the conflict in her soul. When she looked at him, bright-eyed and cheerleader-pretty, he was struck with the full brunt of teenage love and adulation; when she touched him, every nerve in his body screamed with lust.

  She refused to look at him, so Charley turned back to the movie. The music was really howling now, and the vampire shrieked as the stake pounded home. There was a little blood at the corners of her mouth, and her eyes were wild.

  “I’m sorry,” Amy said from behind him.

  “Yeah,” Charley mumbled, his eyes pasted to the screen.

  “I really am.”

  “Yeah, I know. I bet.” He knew he was being pissy. There was something perversely satisfying about it. A minute ago, he’d been physically pleading with her. If she had to crawl a little now, well . . . that might just bweak his widdow heart.

  “Oh, Charley, cut it out. And don’t be mad at me, either. I can’t help it.”

  “You can’t help it,” Charley echoed sarcastically. He thumped his fist against the shag carpet for effect, then leapt to his feet and started pacing around the room. “Well, what
am I supposed to do about it? I can’t help it, either! We’ve been going together for almost a year—”

  “Three months,” she corrected quietly.

  “Well, almost half a year, then—” he stormed on, inconsolable “—and all I ever hear is ‘Charley, stop it’ and ‘I’m sorry!’ It’s making me crazy. It really is.”

  He’d never yelled at her like that before, and it made him a little uncomfortable. He stopped in front of the window and looked from Amy to the screen.

  The words Fright Night appeared in big dripping letters, the Channel 13 logo below it. Then a Carvel Ice Cream commercial came on, and Charley turned to face his ghostly windowpane reflection.

  While the gravelly voice droned on about Cookie Puss, Charley appraised himself. Yeah, you’re a real Cookie Puss, all right, he thought bitterly. You’re as plain as a bag of potatoes.

  In truth, Charley Brewster was not a bad-looking guy. He wasn’t exactly rugged, but there was nothing cutesie about him, either. He was just a solid, decent-looking kid: brown hair, brown eyes, a prominent Roman nose, full lips and symmetrical ears on a pleasant, rounded face. Nothing special, but nothing to kick out of bed.

  When the commercial switched to an ad for the Rancho Corvallis Dragway (the Woody Woodpecker voice howling, “SATURDAY! SATURDAY!”), Amy snuck up behind him and snaked her arms around his neck.

  “I’m really sorry,” she purred, and then nailed him with an entirely believable kiss. It lasted through the spots for Slim Whitman and Barney’s Karpet Kingdom, then cut off with the Planned Parenthood ad.

  When they pulled apart, Amy stared at a spot on his shoulder. She was blushing, and her features were set in a kind of startled determination.

  “Would you like to make love to me?” she tried to say. It came out as little more than a whisper.

  Charley was stunned. A lump the size of his thumb got lodged in his throat. “Are you serious?” he croaked.

  She nodded, red-faced and strangely resolute. She still couldn’t look him in the eyes; when he leaned down to kiss her, she turned her face up to his with her eyes already closed.

  Charley’s heart and hormones were doing elaborate backflips. His erection which had softened, sprang back to attention. They turned slowly in each other’s arms as they kissed, and for some reason he kept his eyes open, vision gliding along the wall, turning into the room, sweeping over the Fright Night logo on the tube . . .

  . . . and then riveting on a spot in the darkness beyond the window.

  What the hell? he thought, lips disengaging from Amy’s. He couldn’t believe what he was seeing.

  Amy slipped out of Charley’s grasp and slid gracefully over to the bed. Part of her felt incredibly awkward: the frightened virgin before the blood and pain gave way to what she hoped would be ecstasy. But she had made a decision, and the choosing made her stronger somehow. Her movements betrayed none of her insecurity.

  I’m going to do it, she thought. I’m really going to do it. She flopped down on the black-and-white comforter that covered the bed, coyly seductive, and looked at her chosen first lover.

  He was staring out the window. In fact, he had grabbled the binoculars off his desk and was using them to get a closer look. She thought it was a little bit strange, but she was too engrossed in her own feelings to bend too far out of shape.

  Peter Vincent came back on the tube just as Amy began to unbutton her blouse. This Peter Vincent was a good twenty years older than the one in the movie: his jet-black hair now turned gray, his strong and handsome face lined with age and pitted with weariness. His delivery was stale as ever, but the air of certain victory he’d brought into his films had been replaced by an aura of defeat. In his gaudy cloak and rumpled black suit, he looked like a vampire who’d switched from blood to Geritol.

  “I hope you are enjoying our Fright Night feature, Blood Castle,” he intoned, mock-sinister. Behind him, styrofoam tombstones wobbled on a cheesy television soundstage; a crudely drawn full-moon-over-the-cemetery mural dangled crookedly from a pair of visible wires. “It’s an all-time favorite monster marathon of mine . . .”

  Amy stopped listening. She was down to her last two buttons, and Charley still hadn’t turned around. Maybe he’s just being shy, she thought, but it didn’t quite ring true. For one thing, he hadn’t been the least bit shy about pawing her like an animal; for another, he still had the binoculars pasted to his head. If he wanted to see something up close, she reasoned, one would think he’d be aiming them at her tits.

  “Charley, I’m ready,” she said, very softly. He didn’t respond. She tried it again, a little more loudly.

  No response. A bit annoyed, and more than a bit confused, she said, “Charley!” once more.

  “Amy,” he said suddenly. “You’re not going to believe this, but there are two guys carrying a coffin into the house next door.”

  Two guys—Peter Vincent and Jonathan the wimp—were carrying a coffin on the TV screen. Blood Castle had resumed. “If you come here, you can see the exact same thing,” she said, smiling wickedly. “With a couple of fringe benefits besides.”

  “Amy, I’m serious.”

  “So am I.”

  “No, you don’t understand. They’re . . . Jesus, they’re carrying it into the cellar, through the storm doors.” He sounded genuinely agitated.

  He wasn’t the only one. She was getting impatient, and goosebumps were starting to form on her exposed flesh. “Charley, cut it out and come here. I’m getting cold.”

  His only response was a muttered “Jesus,” and a slight shift of position at the window.

  “Charley,” she growled, “do you want me or not?”

  “Amy, come here and look at this,” he said. It was as if she hadn’t spoken. “Honest to God, this is weird—”

  “Okay, that’s it!” she yelled, rolling furiously off the bed, her feet thudding loudly on the floor. She fumbled with her buttons as she stomped toward the door. Charley finally turned around.

  “You’re a real jerk, Charley,” she hissed at him, eyes flashing. “Just forget I ever offered. Just forget,” and she waggled her finger for emphasis, “that you ever even knew me at all.”

  “But . . . but . . .” Charley was positively stymied. His jaw hung open; the binoculars were clutched dumbly in his hands. “Where are you going?”

  “Away from you,” she snapped, grabbing the doorknob and twisting it savagely. The door flew open with a thunderous bang as she stormed past it and down the hallway to the stairs.

  All the desire had leaked right out of her like air from a ruptured balloon. The rage that took its place was white-hot and deadly. She hoped that Charley wouldn’t be stupid enough to try to face it. She would singe the hair right out of his nostrils.

  But he was coming, sure enough: clomping down the hallway after her, braying her name like a snotty-nosed toddler. She finished buttoning her blouse and hit the stairs noisily, hoping the clatter would wake his mother up and that he’d get in trouble.

  “Amy, please!” he cried. She could hear him racing to catch up with her. “You gotta believe me! Those people were doing something really strange . . .”

  “You’re the only strange one around here, Charley.” Her voice was level and full of venom. She refused to stop, or to look at him.

  “But they were carrying a coffin!” He caught up with her at last, put one hand on her shoulder.

  “So what!” she yelled, whirling to face him. He backed off, startled. It pleased her. “Listen, if you’re so interested in coffins, why don’t you just go over there and help them carry it? Better yet, why don’t you go back up to your stupid Peter Vincent? He’s probably still dragging one around!”

  “He’s not stupid,” Charley countered. She’d hit a nerve, making fun of his hero. Tough, she thought, smiling through her anger.

  “Tell you what,” she concluded. “Here’s the best idea yet. Why don’t you just dig a nice deep hole and lay in it? Maybe the neighbors will let you borrow their cof
fin!”

  “Amy!”

  They hit the bottom of the stairs together, Amy striding quickly toward the living room and front door. Charley dragged slightly behind, which suited her splendidly, because it meant that she didn’t have to look at his face. “I can show myself out—” she began.

  And then a voice from the living room jarred her to a halt.

  “Amy? Charley?” the voice called, chirping musically in the upper registers. “Is anything wrong?”

  It was Mrs. Brewster, sitting smack dab in the middle of the living room, right in front of the TV. Her back was to them, but they could see her clearly. Amy frantically straightened clothes and hair, heard Charley doing the same. She felt suddenly stupid and mean.

  “Are you two having a lovers’ quarrel?” Mrs. Brewster pried sweetly.

  “No, Mom. Nothing like that.” Charley stepped past Amy and into the living room. He looked embarrassed. She felt a sudden rush of empathy for him.

  “Well, there’s nothing wrong with a little spat now and then,” Mrs. Brewster said, turning to face them. “I just read this article in McCall’s today. It said that the divorce rate is seventy-eight per cent higher among couples who don’t argue before marriage.” She seemed to think it was a pretty impressive statistic.

  “Mom, we’re in high school.” Charley’s voice was plaintive.

  “Well, yes, that’s true.” She looked puzzled for a moment, then brightened. “But it pays to plan ahead!”

  Amy liked Mrs. Brewster. She was a classic Momicon: the kind of pretty-faced housewife on afternoon television who buys St. Joseph’s aspirin for her children. Petite, in her mid-forties, with frosty-blond hair and a face that rarely failed to smile. She was terribly sweet and more than slightly dizzy . . . more than a little bit like her son.

  She’d make a wonderful mother-in-law, Amy found herself thinking, and quickly stifled the thought.

  “Amy?” Mrs. Brewster said. “Say hello to your mother for me, will you? And remind her that we’re playing bridge at her house this weekend. I’ll bring the Cheese Doodles if she makes her pecan pie.” She giggled; Becky Peterson’s pecan pie was legend.