Fright Night by John Skipp Page B

top of his field had submerged the insecurities of little Herbert.
    But as the heroic mask eroded, he came more and more to resemble poor Dorian Gray’s portrait. His so-serious image had become ridiculous, even to his own eyes. His once-commanding features held no conviction. The weightiness of his former preeminence had become a 150-pound cinder block, attached to his neck by a stout length of chain and then lobbed into the river.
    Herbert McHoolihee was drowning, and Peter Vincent couldn’t save him. Now, at last, the dream was over.
    And the nightmare was free to begin.
    There was a knock on the door. The landlord, no doubt, come to verify receipt of the killing document. Peter moved wearily across the room and let the door creak open.
    There were a couple of teenage kids in the doorway. The boy was a bit on the freaky side; he had electroshock-therapy hair and a manic, slightly crazed expression on his face. The girl was much straighter, with short brown curls and wide green eyes gracing a virginal, prom-queen appearance.
    “Mr. Vincent,” the girl said timidly. “May I speak with you for a moment?”
    Peter got over his momentary surprise, assessed them briefly. They were clearly in earnest about something or other. Then he thought about the bills, and his empathy departed. “I’m afraid this isn’t the best time—” he began.
    “Please,” the girl said, and there was no missing the desperation in her eyes, her voice. “It’s terribly important.”
    “Ah, well,” he sighed. “Come on in.” A couple of minutes wouldn’t hurt, he supposed. Perhaps give the old ego a bit of a boost. He bade them enter with a sweeping gesture, closed the door behind, and led them into the heart of the living room.
    “Now what can I do for you?” he continued. “An interview for your school paper? Some autographs, perhaps?”
    “No,” the girl insisted. “I’m afraid this is much more important.”
    “Oh, really?” Frowning slightly.
    “I know you’re a very busy man, Mr. Vincent, but we’re trying to save a boy’s life.”
    “Well, yes.” Harrumphing. “I can see where that might be more important. Would you care to explain yourself?”
    “You remember a fruitcake named Charley Brewster?” the boy cut in. He had been gawking at the movie posters, with open admiration; now he stepped forward, focusing on the conversation. “He said he came to see you.”
    “No,” Peter answered, wrinkling his brow with mock concentration as he shook his head.
    “He’s the one who thinks a vampire is living next door,” the girl interjected.
    “Ah, yes.” Peter grinned as he spoke. “He’s quite insane.” Then he flashed a look of fatherly concern and said, “Dear me, I hope he’s not a friend of yours.”
    “She’s got the hots for him,” the boy said, leering maliciously. The girl blushed and smacked him in the arm with her fist. He yelped.
    “We need your help to stop him, Mr. Vincent. You see, he really does believe that his next-door neighbor is a vampire. He’s planning to kill him.”
    “With a stake through the heart,” the boy added, all wicked glee.
    Peter stared at them for a moment. “You’re putting me on,” he said finally. The girl shook her head with total sincerity. “My God. Young lady, your friend needs a police psychologist, not a vampire hunter.”
    “Please, Mr. Vincent,” she started to plead.
    “I’m afraid not, my dear. You see, Hollywood beckons. I’ve been offered the starring role in a major motion picture. I’ve even had to retire from Fright Night, so—”
    “You’re kidding!” the boy exclaimed. He looked suddenly crestfallen. It warmed Peter’s heart.
    “I’m afraid so. Why? Are you a fan of the show?”
    “Since day one,” the boy replied unhappily.
    “Oh, my goodness,” Peter purred. “Well, we certainly can’t let you get away without an autograph, can we?” He started to rummage through the papers on his desktop in search of a pen.
    “Mr.