Richard Laymon - The Stake

“Sure. Why not? It’s no big secret. Or it won’t be, once we’ve called the police.”

“Still, you shouldn’t have... You’re always blabbing , Larry. God.”

“What’s the big deal?”

“I’m not saying it’s a big deal, just that I wish you’d be more careful about what you say to people. Everybody doesn’t need to know our business.”

“I just wanted to get his reactions.”

“Now he’ll probably think we’re all nut cases.”

“Hardly. He was blown away.”

Jean sighed. She glanced at her wristwatch. “Well, what’s done is done. I just wish you’d...”

“I know, I know.”

“Right, you know. Anyway, Pete and Barbara should be arriving any minute. Would you like to make sure Lane’s about ready?”

“I shouldn’t leave our guest abandoned...”

“It’ll only a take a minute.”

Wishing Jean wouldn’t be so negative about everything, he left the room and went to Lane’s door. He knocked.

“Yeah?” she called.

“Are you decent?”

“Yeah.”

He opened the door. Lane was still in bed, hidden under the covers except for the back of her head. She didn’t look at him.

“I thought you’d be up and dressed by now.”

“I had a relapse.”

“Do you feel good enough to have dinner with us?”

“I don’t know.”

Concerned, he went to the bed. He sat down on its edge and stroked Lane’s hair. She looked up at him with solemn eyes. Her face was slack and pale. “Are you okay?”

“If I was okay, I wouldn’t be lying here.”

“I mean, do you think it might be something serious? Maybe we’d better get you to a doctor.”

“I don’t need any doctor. I’ll be fine.”

“I really hate to see you like this, honey.”

“I’m sorry.

“Look, if you’re not up to having dinner with us, we could bring it in for you.”

“Are Pete and Barbara here yet?”

“Not yet. But Hal’s still here. We’ve asked him to join us. For dinner and for the big event.”

Closing her eyes, Lane muttered, “Wonderful.”

“What’s the matter?”

“Nothing. I just feel awful, that’s all.”

He gently caressed her cheek, then stood up. “It’d be nice if you can join us. It’s up to you, though. Wouldn’t want you barfing on the table.”

Lane didn’t crack a smile.

She is sick, Larry thought.

“Like I said, we’ll bring you something.”

“Thanks.”

He went out to the hallway and closed her door, feeling depressed. It’s probably nothing serious, he told himself. But he thought, What if it’s spinal meningitis? Or bone cancer? Or... Knock it off!

Jean was no longer in the bedroom.

He found her in the living room, sitting on the sofa near Hal, saying, “I know the whole thing sounds crazy, but...” She looked up at Larry.

“Lane’s feeling worse. She might not make it out for dinner.”

Jean scowled. “I’d better go see her. Larry, why don’t you get Hal another drink?”

Her mother shut the door when she left the room. A few minutes later Lane heard the doorbell. That would be Pete and Barbara arriving.

She heard faint, cheerful voices. Some laughter.

It all seemed too weird to be real: the group drinking and eating and having a merry old time while they prepared to conclude their business with the “vampire,” never suspecting they had a real monster in their midst.

The Devil hath the power to assume a pleasing shape.

Kramer hath a pleasing shape, all right.

God, if only they knew what he was really like.

Lane imagined herself getting out of bed and going into the living room. “Hey, guess what Kramer did to me.” Then he gets out his “sharp friend” and has at them all. Maybe Dad and Pete could nail him, but he was sure to cut someone.

She pictured the straight razor slashing a quick gash across her father’s throat.

I’m not going to risk Mom and Dad, she thought. Better to let him keep on messing with me than...

Lane suddenly realized how vulnerable she was, lying in bed with nothing on but her nightshirt, and Kramer in the house.

They’re probably all drinking. Kramer says, “Mind if I use the facilities?” Somebody points out that the John is just at the end of the hall. Of course, nobody escorts him. He excuses himself from the group and comes straight to my room for another round of threats and feelies.

Lane climbed out of bed. She turned on the lamp. At her dresser she took panties from a drawer and put them on. Though flimsy, the snug fabric felt shielding. She pulled off her nightshirt and stuffed it into a drawer. Shivering, she slipped into a bra. As she fastened its hooks, she remembered the times she’d gone to school without one, hoping to attract Kramer’s attention.

You attracted it, all right.

Had nothing to do with that, she reminded herself. Kramer picked me before I started anything.

For additional protection Lane put on a T-shirt. At the closet she took a pair of thick corduroy pants off a hanger. She stretched the T-shirt down to her thighs, drew the pants up over its tails, and fastened the waist button and closed the zipper. Now, to get at her skin, Kramer would have to yank the shirt up out of her pants. She slipped a belt through the loops and cinched it tight. Then she put on her big, plaid shirt. She buttoned its front but didn’t tuck it in.

She glanced at herself in the mirror.

Not exactly armor, but a lot better than the nightshirt. If Kramer paid another visit, he would have a tough time finding any bare skin below her neck.

Lane climbed into bed. She pulled the top sheet and blanket up to her chin. It felt strange to be completely dressed beneath the covers. Not only strange, but hot.

Better a little discomfort, she thought, than to let that slimy bastard put his hands on me again.

She listened for his footsteps. She knew he would come.

Suppose he comes, and I’ve got Dad’s gun under the covers and I blow him away? They’ll find the razor on his body.

Lane’s heart began hammering as she thought about it.

I’ll get it.

She climbed out of bed. When she eased the door open, voices and laughter flooded in. They’re having one hell of a party, she thought.

The hallway was clear.

She rushed to her parents’ room. Leaving the light off, she made her way toward the closet where Dad kept his revolver.

In the dim glow from the hallway, she saw the telephone on the nightstand.

And felt a rush of relief.

She turned on the bedside lamp, phoned directory assistance, and got the number for Melanie Benson. She tapped out the number.

As she listened to the quiet ringing, she watched the door. “Come on, come on,” she muttered.

After the fourth ring, someone picked up.

“Yeah?” Riley, sounding annoyed by the interruption.

“It’s me, Lane.”

“All right ! What’s up?”

“Kramer’s here. He’s at my house.”

“No shit?”

“He’s having dinner with us, for godsake.”

“What the hell?..”

“Never mind. Look, he’s probably going to be here for a couple more hours. I can’t get away, but... I don’t know, I just thought I oughta let you know. He’ll probably be going back to his house afterward, you know? Maybe you want to be waiting for him.”

“Fuckin‘-A.”

“What do you think?”

“Fucker’s gonna be in for the surprise of his life. The last surprise of his life.”

“Be careful, okay? He carries that razor with him.”

When they autopsy the fucker, they’ll find it up his ass.

“Good luck, Riley.”