The Stake Read online

  The Stake

  Richard Laymon

  A horror writer, Larry Dunbar uncovers the body of a high school girl, who had been sacrificed on the altar of a madman's obsession to rid the Earth of a vampire's curse. A world of horrors was born the day the stake was driven into the girl's heart, and Dunbar wants to pull it out.

  Richard Laymon

  The Stake

  This book is dedicated to Frank, Kathy & Leah De Laratta

  Great friends

  Fellow explorers

  &

  Ghost town busters

  Prologue

  Charleston, Illinois

  June 23, 1972

  He had stalked the demon to her lair. Now he waited. Waited for dawn, when she would be most vulnerable.

  The waiting was the worst part. Knowing what was to come. The legends, he’d learned, were not to be trusted. The legends were wrong in so many ways.

  Vampires slept in beds, not coffins — a clever ruse to fool the unknowing. And although daylight sapped their powers, it did not render them helpless. Even after dawn they could wake from their sleep of the dead. They could fight him, hurt him.

  He rubbed his cheek. His fingers trembled along crusty ridges of scab. She’d had sharp fingernails, the one in Urbana.

  He shuddered with the memory.

  He’d been lucky to save himself.

  Maybe he’d used up his luck on that one. Maybe, this time, it wouldn’t be fingernails ripping his cheek. Maybe, this time, teeth would find his throat.

  Ducking down against the steering wheel, he reached under the driver’s seat and pulled out a bottle of bourbon. He twisted off its cap. He drank. The liquor was lukewarm going down, but it spread soothing heat through his stomach. He wanted to drink more.

  Later, he promised himself. No more until the task is done.

  You must keep your wits about you, he thought. It was the liquor that almost got you killed last week. These monsters are clever.

  Again he rubbed his scratched cheek.

  He took one more drink, then forced himself to cap the bottle. He slid it under the seat. As he straightened up, a car turned the corner ahead. Its headlights were on, but the morning sky was light enough to show the rack on top. A patrol car.

  He threw himself down across the passenger seat.

  His mouth felt dry. His heart thundered.

  It’s not right, he thought. I shouldn’t have to live like a fugitive. I’m as much a public servant as those police out there.

  He held his breath as the patrol car cruised by. It passed so close that he could hear crackles, squawks, and a garbled voice from its radio. He regretted his decision to leave the windows down. They might find that suspicious. But his car would’ve been stifling if he’d kept it closed up.

  He breathed again as the sounds faded.

  He stayed low, counting slowly to one hundred. Then he sat up and peered out the rear window. The red taillights were mere specks.

  Opening his door, he leaned out and studied the sky. It was still gray beyond the peaked roof of the vampire’s dwelling. He placed a foot on the curb, straightened up and peered over the roof of his car. To the east the sky was pale blue.

  From long experience, he knew that the sun would soon appear above the horizon.

  It would be up by the time he was in position.

  He sank back into the car. His silver crucifix hung against his chest. He fingered its chain and pulled the cross out from under his shirt. Then he lifted a leather briefcase off the floor in front of the passenger seat. Reaching into the case, he pulled out a necklace of garlic cloves. He looped it over his head.

  Briefcase in hand, he stepped out of the car.

  The overgrown lawn was surrounded by a picket fence. He swung the gate wide, kicking its bottom past tufts of weed that were high enough to hold it open. Coming out this way, he would be carrying the body. He didn’t want the gate slowing him down.

  The porch stairs creaked under his weight. The screen door groaned. Inside the porch he used a wicker chair to prop the door open.

  Twisting the knob, he found that the front door wasn’t locked. That made it easy. He wouldn’t need his pry bar. He crept silently into the house, and didn’t shut the door.

  He knew where to find her room. Shortly after she’d entered, last night, lights had appeared in the front windows to the right of the porch. She’d stepped up to each of the windows and lowered the shades.

  The house was silent. The faint light that found its way into the living room cast a gray shroud over the old sofa, the rocking chair, the lamps and piano. The wallpaper looked faded and stained. Above the piano hung an oil painting of a forest clearing with a peaceful, running brook. In the gloom, it looked dim and somber, as if dawn hadn’t yet come to the forest scene.

  At the far corner of the room was a wood-framed entrance to a hallway.

  He crept to the hallway and followed it to the open door of the vampire’s bedroom.

  His mouth went dry and his heart pounded as he gazed in at her. She lay on a bed between the two windows, curled on her side, facing away from him. The first rays of the morning sun glowed against the blinds, filling the room with an amber hue. She was covered only by a sheet. Her dark hair was spread against the pillow.

  Crouching, he set his briefcase on the floor. He spread its top, reached in and lifted out the hammer.

  A sledge with a heavy steel head and a foot-long haft.

  With his other hand he took out a pointed stake of ash wood.

  He clamped the stake in his teeth.

  He stood up. Staring at the vampire, he willed her to roll over. Face up or down, it didn’t matter. He could pound the stake through her back as easily as her chest. But she had to be lying flat, not on her side.

  Somehow, he’d known this would be a difficult kill.

  Should he wait? Eventually she was bound to turn over.

  The longer he waited, the more danger of being seen when he carried the body out. And he hadto do that. Take it far away in the trunk of his car and hide it where it would never be found.

  People vanished all the time, and for many reasons. But to be discovered here with a stake in her heart...

  The police would stupidly mistake it as the work of a homicidal maniac. The news would spread. The populace would panic. Worst of all, a legion of vampires would suddenly be put on guard that a hunter was in their midst.

  And this morning’s efforts would be in vain, for the police or coroner were certain to pull the stake from her heart. She would live again to prowl the night.

  No. She had to disappear.

  A floorboard creaked as he stepped to the side of the bed. She moaned, squirmed a little beneath the sheet, but didn’t turn over.

  The stake still held in his teeth, he reached out with his left hand. He pinched the sheet where its edge curled over her shoulder. As he eased it down she continued to take long, slow breaths. But his own breathing quickened.

  The sliding sheet revealed her naked back, the smooth curves of her buttocks, her sleek legs.

  She was a vampire, a vile, murdering demon. But her body was that of a slender young woman, and he felt a stir of heat in his groin as he studied her. He trembled with the familiar mingling of lust and terror — a sensation close to ecstasy, which always came upon him at such moments. He used to feel ashamed of his desire. Finally, however, he’d come to consider it a reward for his sacrifices. A payment, of sorts, bestowed upon him to balance out the risks.

  Without it he would have lost the will, long ago, to continue his crusade. He knew this to be true. Confronting vampires of the male gender, he felt no such arousal. Only revulsion. As a result he had ceased to seek them out. He considered this to be his greatest failing, but often told himself tha
t he was doing his share. He was one man against a horde. He couldn’t dispatch them all. He had to be selective. So he selected the women. Horrid as they were, they excited him.

  Her left arm lay against her side, bent at the elbow, the rest out of sight. Its skin was pebbled with tiny bumps from the cool, morning air. Leaning forward, he peered over her upper arm at the swell of her breast. It had goose-flesh, like her arm. Her nipple stood erect. From this position he couldn’t see her other breast.

  As he stared, saliva began to spill over his lip. He tried to shut his mouth, but the stake was in the way. He jerked his left hand up to catch the drool, but not in time.

  A string of spit dribbled onto the vampire’s arm.

  Mumbling, she slid a hand out from under her pillow, brushed the wetness, rolled onto her back and frowned as if perplexed. Still, her eyes were shut. She took the hand away. It fell onto the mattress beside her hip. It rubbed the sheet, then rose and came to rest on her thigh, the end of her thumb sinking into the thick nest of hair at her groin.

  As he watched, full of dread that she might awaken, yet trembling with a fever of desire, he took the stake from his teeth. He knew he should wait no longer.

  But he hesitated. His eyes roamed her sleeping form.

  Though she might be centuries old, her face and body were those of a teenage girl. She looked no older than seventeen or eighteen. She looked lovely, innocent, delicious.

  If only she were human, and not a foul, loathsome creature of the night.

  He ached to kiss those lips which had sucked so much innocent blood. He ached to caress those breasts, to savor their velvety smoothness, to feel the soft rub of those nipples against his palms. He ached to spread those legs and slide deep into her heat.

  If only she weren’t a vampire.

  Such a shame. Such a waste.

  Get it over with, he told himself.

  He leaned farther forward, knees pressing against the side of the mattress, and raised his hammer high. His other hand twitched and fluttered as he lowered the tapered shaft toward her chest. The shaking point passed over her left breast, moved slightly higher, hovered half an inch above her skin.

  There.

  One strong blow and...

  Her eyes leaped open. She gasped. She clutched his wrist, twisted it with all the might of her demonic powers. Crying out, he watched in horror as the stake dropped from his numb fingers and fell, blunt end first, toward her other breast.

  A feeling of utter desolation swept through him like an icy flood.

  Without the stake...

  As it bounced off her breast he strained against her grip, praying to retrieve it. But her fierce hold was too powerful. The stake slid out of sight beyond her rib cage.

  He knew, then, that all was lost.

  Still, he swung the hammer down at her face. Crying out, she yanked his trapped wrist. She flung up her other arm, blocking the blow as he fell toward her.

  He sprawled across her chest. An arm clamped tight against his back and she bucked beneath him, squirming and turning, tumbling him over her body. He no sooner hit the mattress than she scurried onto him and smashed a knee into his groin.

  His breath blasted out. Stunned with agony, he saw the wooden shaft in her hand. Watched her raise it above his face. He tried to ward off the blow, but his stricken muscles failed to obey.

  He had just enough breath to choke out a scream as the stake’s point punched through his eye.

  Explorers

  One

  “How about a little detour on the way home?” Pete asked. He started his van moving. Its tires crunched over the gravel of the parking lot.

  A detour. Sounded good to Larry. But he said nothing. He knew that Pete’s suggestion had been directed to those in the seats behind them. If the wives didn’t go for it, the matter was closed.

  “You aren’t gonna get us lost again, are you?” Barbara asked.

  “Who, me?”

  “He gets us on those back roads, no telling where we’ll end up.”

  “I always get us home, don’t I?”

  “Eventually.”

  Pete glanced at Larry. A corner of his mouth turned up, lifting that side of his mustache. “Why do I put up with this, I ask you?”

  Before Larry could come up with an answer, Barbara leaned forward and hooked a tawny forearm across her husband’s throat. “Because you love me, right?” she asked. She nipped the ridge of his ear.

  “Hey, hey, calm down. You want to run me off the road?”

  She wore a sleeveless blouse. A sprinkling of freckles showed on her deeply tanned shoulder. Though the air conditioner was blowing cool air into the van, the skin above her lip gleamed with moisture under a fine, curly down. Larry didn’t want to be caught staring, so he looked away. Just ahead, an old-timer dressed like a prospector was leading a burro along the road’s dusty shoulder.

  Larry wondered if the guy was for real. Silver Junction, the town they were leaving behind, was full of characters in old west getups. Some seemed like the real article, but he had no doubt that most were simply playing the role for the benefit of the tourists.

  “So how about it?” Pete asked as Barbara released him. “Want to do some exploring?”

  “I think it’d be fun,” Jean said. “You in a hurry to get home, Larry?”

  “Me? No.”

  “He always hates to lose a day,” she explained. “I have an awful time trying to drag him out of the house.”

  “The day’s already shot,” he said.

  “Same to you, fella,” Barbara said.

  “Whoops. Didn’t mean it that way. It’s been great.” It hadbeen a nice change from his usual seven-day work schedule. Fun being out with Pete and Barbara, wandering the old town, watching the gunfight on Main Street, having a burger and a couple of beers in the picturesque saloon. “I need to get out more, anyway, or I’d run dry.”

  “Everything we do ends up in his books,” Jean explained, “but he still hates to be dragged away from his almighty word processor.”

  “That’s what keeps a roof over our heads.”

  Pete tipped his head back as if to carom his voice off the top of the windshield, the better for Barbara to hear. “Let’s take him to that ghost town.”

  A ghost town.

  A warm, pleasant tightness came to Larry’s chest and throat.

  “You think you can find it?” Barbara asked.

  “No sweat.” He turned to Larry, grinning. “You’ll love it. Just your kind of place.”

  “It’s pretty spooky, all right,” Barbara said.

  “He’ll be in hog heaven.”

  “I bet you get a book out of it,” Pete told him. “Call it ‘The Horror of Sagebrush Flat.’ Maybe have some weirdos lurking around, chopping up everyone.”

  Larry could feel himself blushing a little with the stir of pride that came whenever people started referring to his grisly novels. “If I did,” he said, “you wouldn’t read it.”

  “Iwill,” Barbara assured him.

  “I know you will. You’re my best fan.”

  “I’ll wait for the movie,” Pete announced.

  “You’ll have a long wait.”

  “You’re gonna make it,” he said, nodding at Larry and narrowing one eye.

  Barbara gave the back of his head a gentle whack. “He’s alreadymade it, dickhead.”

  “Hey, hey, watch it with the hands.” He smoothed his mussed hair. The thick black hair was threaded with strands of gray. His mustache, with a lot more gray in it, looked as if it belonged on an older face.

  “You’ll be a wizened, silver-haired old coot,” Larry said, “before they ever make a movie of one of my books.”

  “Ah, bull. You’ll make it, mark my words.” He tilted his head. “ ‘The Beast of Sagebrush Flat.’ I can see it now. I’ve gotta be one of the characters, right?”

  “Of course. You’re the guy driving.”

  “Who’s gonna play me? Has to be someone suitably handsome and dashi
ng.”

  “Pee-wee Herman,” Barbara suggested.

  “You about ready to die, honey?”

  “De Niro,” Larry said. “He’d be perfect.”

  Pete raised an eyebrow and stroked his mustache. “Think so? He’s kind of old.”

  “You’re no spring chicken,” Barbara said.

  “Hey. Thirty-nine. Hardly counts as one foot in the grave.”

  “Before you start losing your eyesight, you’d better watch for the turnoff.”

  “I know just where it is. Never fear. I’ve got a natural instinct for these things. De Niro, huh? Yeah, I like that.”

  “You’d better slow down,” Barbara told him.

  “Don’t get your shorts in a knot, huh? I know exactly where we’re going.”

  The van swept around a curve of the two-lane blacktop and shot past a road that led off to the left.

  “That was it, smart guy.”

  He leaned against his door and watched the road recede in the side mirror. “Naw.”

  “Oh yes it was.”

  “They never listen to us,” Jean said.

  “That wasn’t it,” Pete muttered, stepping on the brake. The van slowed. He pulled onto the gravel shoulder, stopped, cranked his window down and stared back. “You really think that’s it, honey?”

  “If you don’t believe me, keeping going.”

  “Shit.”

  “Maybe we won’tbe visiting a ghost town today,” Jean said, sounding amused.

  Larry turned in his seat and looked at her. Smiling, she rolled her eyes upward. That expression was as good as words. What’ve we gotten ourselves into? Like Larry, she always got a kick out of the good-natured bickering that went on between Pete and Barbara. But they’d seen the arguments turn nasty, and had occasionally overheard quarrels that sounded truly vicious coming from the couple’s next-door house.

  “Why don’t we give that road a try?” Larry suggested.

  “It’s not the one.”

  “Prince Henry the Navigator,” Barbara muttered.

  “Maybe we should flip a coin,” Jean said.