Richard Laymon - The Stake

“Yuck. Horror’s supposed to be fun.

“But there’s a real story there. Who is she? Who put the stake in her chest? Was the lock (brand new) put on the hotel doors by the same person who hid her under the stairs? Best of all, what happens if you pull the stake?

“Lies there. Dead meat.

“But what if life flows into her? Her dry, crusty skin becomes smooth and youthful. Her flat breasts swell into gorgeous mounds. Her sunken face fills out. She is beautifiil beyond your wildest imagination. She is breathtaking. (And bloodtaking.)

“She doesn’t bite your neck, after all.

“That’s because she’s grateful to you for freeing her to live again. Feels so indebted that she’ll do anything for you. You’re her master, and she will do your bidding. In effect, you have this gorgeous thing as your slave.

“Real possibilities.”

Lane shoved her books onto the locker shelf, took out her lunch bag and shut the metal door. As she gave the combination lock a twirl, an arm slipped around her stomach, a mouth pressed the side of her neck. She cringed as chills scurried up her skin.

“Stop it,” she said, whirling around.

“Couldn’t help myself,” Jim said.

Lane looked past him. The hallway was crowded. Kids were wandering by, talking and laughing. Those who weren’t with friends all seemed to be in a great hurry. Lockers slammed. Teachers stood near their classroom doorways, on the lookout for trouble. Nobody seemed to be paying any attention to Lane and Jim.

“Did you miss me?” Jim asked.

“I survived.”

“Uh-oh. Am I in trouble?”

“I don’t much care to be grabbed in public. How many times do I have to tell you that?”

“Oooh, touchy. Are we on the rag?”

Lane felt heat rush to her face. “Real nice,” she muttered. “Who died and made you king of the jerks?”

He smiled, but there was no humor in his eyes. “I was just kidding. Can’t you take a joke?”

“Obviously not.”

He dropped the smile. “I don’t need this.”

“Good. Adios.”

Scowling, he muttered something Lane couldn’t hear, turned away and joined the flow of the hallway crowd. He walked about twenty feet, then glanced over his shoulder as if he expected Lane to come rushing after him.

She gave him a glare.

He smirked as if to say, “Your loss, bitch,” then continued down the hall.

Creep, she thought.

On the rag. What a shitty thing to say.

She leaned back against her locker and took a deep breath, trying to calm herself. She felt hot with embarrassment and anger. Her heart thudded. She was trembling.

Who needs him, anyhow? she told herself.

I was pretty rough on him, she thought as she started down the hallway. It wasn’t as if he did anything all that awful. Just kissed my neck, really. No big crime. But he shouldn’t have done it right in front of everyone. He knows how I feel about that kind of thing.

Even if I did give him a hard time, it was no reason to make a crude remark like that.

She had missed him. All weekend she’d looked forward to seeing him again.

She suddenly felt cheated and sad. Her new outfit made it worse. Like getting all dressed up for a party and being left at home.

Why did he have to act like that?

He can be such a jerk sometimes.

Whenever he didn’t get his way, Lane got to see his snotty side. Afterward, though, he was usually quick to apologize, and he could be so sweet that she found it difficult to hold onto her anger.

She supposed the same thing would happen this time.

One of these days, she told herself, he’ll go too far and that’ll be the end of it.

Maybe he just did.

But the thought of breaking up with Jim made her feel empty and alone. He was the only real boyfriend she’d had since starting at Buford High — ever, for that matter. They’d shared so much. He might act like a creep sometimes, but nobody’s perfect.

You’re just too chicken to dump him, she thought.

In no time at all everyone in school would know they had split up. When that happened, she would be fair game. She’d either have to become a hermit or risk going out with virtual strangers — and some of them were bound to be creeps.

At least you know you can handle Jim.

True love, she thought. I must be out of my gourd. You don’t keep going with a guy forever just because he’s okay and you’re afraid you might do worse.

When he tries to make up this time, I should just tell him to drop dead.

On the rag . A, I’m not. B, screw him anyway.

In the cafeteria she spotted Jim at one of the long lunch tables, surrounded by his jock friends. Betty and Henry were at a corner table, sitting across from each other at its far end, several empty chairs between them and the rowdy clique of girls occupying the other end.

After buying a Pepsi at the “drinks only” window, she went to join them. “Mind if I sit here?” she asked.

“Okay with me,” Henry said. “Just don’t embarrass us by sticking a straw up your nostril.”

“The hell with that. How’ll I drink my pop?”

“Take a load off,” Betty said.

She pulled out the metal folding chair and sat down beside Henry.

“So how come you’re not eating with Jim Dandy?” he asked. “Did your taste buds finally rebel at the prospect?”

“Something like that. We had a little problem.”

Betty, about to take a bite, frowned and set her sandwich down. “Are you all right?”

Lane realized she suddenly had a lump in her throat. She didn’t trust herself to speak, so she nodded.

“The dirt bag,” Betty said.

“Want me to kick his butt?” Henry asked.

“You’d need the Seventh Cavalry,” Betty told him. “And they already bought it at the Little Big Horn.”

“Very funny.”

“I don’t know why you put up with him,” she said. Her cheeks wobbled as she shook her head. “Good Lord, girl, you know darn well you could have any guy in the school. Except for Henry, of course. I’d be forced to kill him if he made a play for you.”

“You ladies could share me,” he suggested.

“But I mean it, though. Seriously. Jim’s always giving you grief about one thing or another. Why do you stand for it?”

“I don’t know.”

“Because he’s so cute,” Henry said.

“Stick it in your ear. This is serious.”

“Maybe I will dump him,” Lane said. “It’s just getting worse all the time.”

Grinning, Henry leaned sideways and slipped an arm around her back. “Saturday night. You and me. We’ll make beautiful music together.”

Lane saw a quick look of alarm on Betty’s face. Then the girl narrowed her eyes and said, “Prepare to meet your maker, Henrietta.”

“Sorry,” Lane told him. “I’d hold myself responsible for your demise. I can’t have that on my conscience.”

“I’d die happy.”

Betty’s face went red. She pressed her lips together.

“That’s enough, Henry,” Lane said.

He tried to hang on to his silly grin but it fell off. He pulled his arm in. “Just kidding,” he said.

Just kidding. That’s what Jim had said. What was it, the standard excuse when a guy makes an ass of himself?

Lane opened her bag and took out the sandwich. It was wrapped in cellophane. She saw egg salad bulging out between the bread.

“Just trying to make you jealous, sweet stuff,” he said to Betty.

“You’d stand as much chance with Lane as an ice cube in a hot skillet.”

Tears suddenly burned Lane’s eyes. She slapped her sandwich down hard on the table. “I’m sorry!” she blurted. “Goddamn it! Don’t do this! You’re my friends!”