Larry’s Guest
GUY N. SMITH was first published at the age of twelve in a local newspaper. Following a career in banking, his first novel, Werewolf by Moonlight, was published in 1974. It was followed by two sequels, Return of the Werewolf and The Son of the Werewolf.
Since then he has published more than 100 books in all genres, although he is still best known for such horror novels as The Sucking Pit, The Slime Beast, The Ghoul, Bats Out of Hell, Satan’s Snowdrop, Deathbell, Thirst, The Undead, Abomination, Snakes, Cannibals, Alligators, Fiend, The Festering, Mania, Phobia, Carnivore, The Black Fedora, The Knighton Vampires, The Cadaver, Maneater, Nightspawn and the bestselling “Crabs” series—Night of the Crabs, Killer Crabs, The Origin of the Crabs, Crabs on a Rampage, Crab’s Moon and Crabs: The Human Sacrifice.
The author has also written a number of non-fiction books about country matters, crime and mystery thrillers (as “Gavin Newman”), a series of children’s animal adventures (as “Jonathan Guy”), Walt Disney novelizations and soft porn (under a variety of pseudonyms). His how-to manual, Writing Horror Fiction, was published in 1996.
Returning to England, the Count discovers that things have changed during his absence ...
~ * ~
LARRY STUMBLED PANIC-STRICKEN out of the old underground air-raid shelter at the bottom of the garden, almost screaming his terror aloud. Overhanging laurel branches reached out like cold wet hands to stroke him; he hit back at them. His breath came in short gasps, his heart was beating faster and faster.
Then, to his sheer relief, the house loomed up ahead of him and he staggered in through the open back door, every ounce of his sixteen-stone frame trembling, his heavy-jowled unshaven features ashen. The wicker chair in the corner of the cluttered kitchen creaked alarmingly beneath him as he fell into it.
Oh, please God, it was all in his imagination!
Then he heard the kitchen door creaking slowly open, peered through the gloom and cringed from the stooped silhouette that was framed against the wan light from the hall.
No, please!
“Larry, are you all right? You were very out of breath when you came in. You haven’t been ...”
“I’m okay!”The hoarse whisper came from his quivering lips. He had only to move a yard and his mother was asking him if he was all right, shuffling to check on him like some grotesque ghoul. She was beginning to go senile, but that wasn’t surprising at eighty-six. He had wasted the best part of his life staying at home to look after her, all for a miserable inheritance that he might not even get if she outlived him.
“Go back into the lounge, Mother, it’s nearly time for your television programme. I’ll bring your tea shortly.” And just leave me alone, he added silently to himself.
He heard her going back through the hall. Jesus, he didn’t get a minute’s peace these days. She still thought he was twelve instead of fifty-two. Right now, though, he had more important things to think about.
Like that coffin out there in the disused wartime shelter which he used as a darkroom for his amateur photography. Jim had dumped it there, of course. Who else? It had to be him. For some months now Larry had allowed Jim to store crates and boxes in there. Temporarily, of course—booze and cigarettes brought back from transcontinental haulage trips. It had seemed a fair arrangement; one day the shelter would be full, the next it was empty. Jim had regular customers for his contraband—pubs and off-licences presumably. Naturally, Larry’s mother didn’t know what was going on and she wasn’t likely to find out. She couldn’t even walk as far as the shelter with her arthritis and osteoporosis and, even if she somehow managed to, she was almost blind with cataracts. There was no fear of her finding out.
There was always an envelope left for Larry on the shelf inside the entrance after Jim had been to collect his latest cache. Twenty or thirty pounds, sometimes forty. It was money for old rope. Until now.
But what was a bloody coffin doing in there? Finding that hadn’t done Larry’s blood pressure a whole lot of good. He had just had one glimpse of it when he flicked the light on, then he had fled. It wasn’t a new coffin, in fact it looked quite old—like it had been lying around for some time. Larry almost thought that it might have been dug up from some graveyard. An exhumation. No, surely not. There wouldn’t be a corpse in it. Would there? No, of course not, Jim wouldn’t be into selling dead bodies, would he? Larry blanched at the thought, remembering that movie about Burke and Hare. He shuddered.
Then he guessed what it was all about, and realization brought with it a flood of relief. Jim had used the coffin to smuggle cigarettes and that thought made Larry feel a whole lot easier. It was ideal for the purpose. Maybe the customs were having a purge on small-time smugglers and what better than a coffin to allay suspicion? They weren’t likely to open that up! Larry almost laughed aloud at the thought.
All the same, Jim might have told him, it could have given Larry a bloody heart attack! Maybe he would give Jim a call just to put his mind at rest, check that there was nothing sinister about the coffin. No, Mother would overhear. Her limbs and her eyesight were in a bad way, but there was nothing wrong with her hearing. Doubtless Jim would take the coffin away tomorrow and there ought to be an extra tenner in the envelope for something like that.
Larry glanced around in the failing light. He had gone out to the shelter to fetch a film which he had developed earlier in the day, but in his sudden fright he had left it behind. He needed that film, he wanted to check the negatives. There were a couple of autumnal landscape shots which he might be able to sell to a magazine. His mother always kept him short of money. That was her hold over him. You’ll get it all one day, Larry, so just you look after me in the meantime.
He would have to go and get it, then.
He glanced out of the window into the wilderness of the garden and saw that it was not quite dark yet. Once night had fallen there was no way he would ever go out there. It wouldn’t take a minute, the strip of developed film was suspended from a clothes peg just inside the doorway. His heart started to speed up again.
Go on, it’s now or never. There’s nothing to be afraid of. Really, there isn’t.
“Are you sure you’re all right, Larry?” His mother’s concerned voice came from the lounge.
“I’m fine.”
“Where are you off to now?”
“Just fetching some film from the shelter.”
Her hearing certainly made up for all her other shortcomings.
“Can’t it wait till morning?”
“No, I need it.” He slammed the back door after him.
It was deep dusk and it would be fully dark in ten or fifteen minutes. The laurel branches reached out for him again as if they wanted to drag him into the shelter. He shivered, slapped back at them, stumbled on the uneven ground and almost lost his footing.
“Damn!” He yelled his fear and frustration out loud as he just managed to regain his balance. “And damn Jim, too, for bringing that bloody coffin here. He might’ve asked first, it’s only good manners. Give him an inch and he takes a bleedin’ mile.”
He thought he had left the shelter door open in his flight, but it was firmly closed now. The latch was stiff; he had to force it, and it clanged as it came free. The door creaked open. It was pitch dark inside, but he could not remember having switched the light off. Obviously, he must have done so. He hesitated, almost changed his mind—he didn’t really need that film tonight, tomorrow would be soon enough. Still, having come this far ...
A faint noise had him stiffening, as if somebody had moved in the bowels of this World War II edifice. Larry’s mouth went dry, his pulse raced and his temples throbbed. It stank inside here, stale and musty and ... something else which he could not quite place, an odour that was like damp earth. Well, this shelter was underground so it was no wonder that it smelled earthy.
Definitely, something moved. Rats, probably. His flesh crawled, he hated rats. He had seen one in here once before. No, it wasn’t rats, it was too big and heavy. Jim, in all probability, come to collect his illicit cargo. At least he would get rid of it tonight. It must be Jim.
“Jim?” Larry scarcely recognized his own voice. The name echoed in the confined space, came back at him.
There was no answer. Just a soft footfall. Larry tried to peer inside the shelter but it was too dark to see. Then he had a sudden thought which, in its own way, was a relief. Maybe Jim had something really illegal in that box—like drugs—and he was hoping that Larry hadn’t found it. Just an overnight storage, and he might even try to dodge paying, too.
“That you, Jim?”
Whoever it was breathed deeply, an intake of breath which was released in a low hissing sound. Larry almost fled back to the house. Once indoors he would lock and bolt the doors, the way he always did at dusk.
But he stayed. Maybe it was the thought of the money—which Jim might not leave if he thought his visit had gone undetected—that held Larry there. Or perhaps he was too shaken to flee. Whatever the reason, Larry stretched out a trembling hand, located the rusted, cobweb-festooned power point and flicked on the light switch.
Larry was momentarily dazzled by the unshaded bulb, and he averted his head while his eyesight adjusted to the brightness. Then an inarticulate cry came from his lips as he stared in disbelief.
A man stood in the centre of the small brick-built underground chamber, his dark clothing starkly outlined against the dirty whitewashed walls. It certainly was not Jim! The stranger was much taller than Larry’s acquaintance—he must have been well over six feet. A garment was draped around his shoulders. It might have been a loosely worn topcoat or an old-fashioned cloak.
His hair was brushed straight back, flecked with grey, but it was the expression on his features which filled Larry with a new dread. The cheeks were hollowed and the mouth was so red that it might have been smeared with lipstick. Strong white teeth were bared in either a smile or a snarl, Larry could not be sure which.
Yet it was the eyes which terrified him most—twin orbs that glowed redly, that seemed to bore into him and read his innermost thoughts. Larry swallowed. This time he would most certainly have fled but for the fact that his legs had suddenly gone so weak that he doubted whether they would be able to bear his weight much longer. He gripped the shelf, held on to it for support. Oh, what a fool he was to have returned to the shelter!
“Good evening,” the mysterious stranger flicked at particles of dust which adhered to his long cloak. His lips were stretched still further, revealing twin canine teeth that glinted in the stark light. “I trust you will forgive this intrusion. It is not by choice, I assure you.”
“That’s ... that’s all right”, Larry stammered. It wasn’t, but he was not going to argue with this guy. The other had a hint of a foreign accent; doubtless, Jim was involved in this. Perhaps he had taken to smuggling illegal immigrants.
“What country is this?” Those eyes fixed Larry with an unwavering stare. He did not want to look into them but he found himself compelled to meet the other’s gaze.
“England,” Larry gulped. So the guy was foreign and doubtless he had travelled here inside that... Larry forced his eyes away, stole a glance at the coffin. The lid was propped open and he saw that the interior was lined with red velvet and silk. A nauseating stench wafted from it, like a rotting corpse had lain within. It probably had. Jim had dug the coffin up, dumped the contents and used it to transport this weirdo here.
“England ...” The other’s eyes appeared to glaze over. “I knew that country ... a long time ago.”
He’s cooked, Larry thought, crazy as a coot. Maybe it’s some kind of game to scare the shit out of folks. He started, eyed the stranger again and his guts balled. There was a similarity, more the attire and the posture than facially ... a definite likeness to a character he had seen in a number of late-night movies, portrayed by a variety of actors. Well, if this stranger was acting out the part, that was why he looked so much like ...”
“May I prevail upon your hospitality?” There was a smoothness that blended into presumption, adding to Larry’s unease. “I shall need a dwelling place during my stay in England.”
“My ... mother doesn’t allow anybody to stay overnight. We don’t have a spare bedroom.” That was because all the rooms were piled with Larry’s junk. He never threw anything away.
“Oh, this place is more than adequate,” the man waved a hand. “Everything that I desire. And I will pay you handsomely for your hospitality.” His other hand delved into the folds of his clothing and reappeared with a shining coin held between two fingers. “On account, sir, and I will pay you more in due course. Go on, take it.”
Larry’s outstretched hand shook. The coin was unbearably cold, like buried treasure that had been unearthed. He guessed it was gold, but its markings were unknown to him. Whatever part this guy was enacting, at least his money seemed genuine. Larry felt a shiver running up his spine. He didn’t know what the coin was but it was certainly no fake. It cast a sinister reality upon this bizarre encounter.
“All right,” Larry’s teeth chattered when he spoke. “But only for a short time.” If necessary, he would call the police tomorrow.
“Of course.” Those huge sharp teeth flashed another smile. “Just until I ... acclimatize. I shall go forth, explore this strange land and ascertain whether or not it is to my liking. If so, then I shall endeavour to find some place to live which is in keeping with the lifestyle to which I am accustomed in my homeland.”
Larry nodded. There were questions which he refrained from asking for fear of what the answers might be. This guy could doss down in the shelter overnight. Then tomorrow, in full daylight, he would reassess the situation.
He turned away, stumbled from the shelter, and made his way back indoors. Only then did he remember that he had still not collected his strip of drying negatives. They could go hang, literally. There was no way he was going back in there tonight.
~ * ~
Larry’s mother always retired for the night around ten o’clock. She would go upstairs, a step at a time, clutching the banister all the way, and then spend another hour undressing and doing whatever she did in her own bedroom. Larry rarely went to bed before the early hours—there was little point when there was nothing to get up for the following morning. Usually he watched a late movie or a video. But not tonight.
He had checked and rechecked that all the doors were bolted and locked. He was not in the mood to watch a film, certainly not one of those. He sat in the kitchen, glancing uneasily around. It was disconcerting to know that some nutter was camped out in the shelter, but at least the other couldn’t get into the house tonight.
Larry studied the coin which the stranger had given him. He was certain it was gold but its origin remained a mystery. It was very old and therefore likely to be very valuable. Even so, it was small compensation for having to tolerate this madness.
He made up his mind that he wasn’t going upstairs tonight. Somehow, asleep in bed, one was vulnerable. Far better to doze in the chair.
Larry slept fitfully. In his uneasy dreams he looked into those glowing red eyes, heard that awful hiss.
He woke up with a start and smelled his own sweat. He looked around the room but there was nobody there. It was that ongoing nightmare that had disturbed him ...
Somebody was tapping on the outside of the window.
Larry blanched. He thought about going through to the hallway and phoning the police. But it might just be night moths flapping against the window, attracted by the light from within. In which case Larry would look like a bloody idiot when the Bill arrived.
The tapping continued, more insistent now.
Larry knew he would have to take a look, he couldn’t stand this all night. His legs were shaky as he heaved himself up out of the chair and crossed the room unsteadily. His trembling fingers rested on the frayed curtain. He didn’t want to look, he didn’t dare. Something made him.
Larry screamed as he stared into the sallow features pressed against the other side of the pane—as he looked into those bloodshot eyes and recoiled from an angry snarl.
He should have let the curtain fall back into place, and either returned to his chair or else gone through and phoned die police. He did neither. Just stared into those hateful, commanding eyes.
“Let … me ... in.”
Larry obeyed, and then the tall imposing figure of his unwanted guest was standing over him in the kitchen, breathing foul fumes that made Larry want to retch.
“What is this place you call England?” the stranger demanded. He was clearly angry and disturbed.
“What... what d’you mean?”
“Where are the horses and carriages? What are those machines that hurtle by at unbelievable speed, apparently without horses to pull them? And larger ones, like monsters on wheels?”
Jesus, he was screwy, this one! “They’re cars,” Larry explained. “Cars and lorries. Driven by petrol.”
“Petrol?”
Christ, just where did you start? Larry didn’t know.
“I attempted to discover a town, where I might find what I seek.”
“The town’s less than two miles from here, straight down the main road, you can’t miss it. But everything’ll be closed now.”
“I need a woman,” the tall man was trembling with undisguised lust. “A comely wench. But I cannot, I dare not, enter this place you call a town with its strange bright lighting and carriages that travel without horses. I need your help, and I will gladly reward you.” As if by magic another of the strange gold coins appeared and was held up in front of Larry’s eyes. “Find me a wench!”
“There’s a red light area in town. The prostitutes solicit at all hours of the night.” Larry knew that because he had driven around the streets once or twice. He just had not had the courage to stop. “You’d find one easy enough if you ...”
“Go and bring one back for me!”
Larry felt weak and scared for another reason now. Kerb crawling was a dangerous occupation—there had been a big feature on it in the local newspaper.
“Go!”
“Give me half an hour and I’ll see what I can do.” Larry did not have a choice. His mother should be fast asleep by now. If he rolled the Mini down the drive and didn’t start it until he reached the road, he probably wouldn’t awaken her. His greatest fear was that a patrolling police car might stop him.
“Bring her to my abode—a whore who will be honoured above all others, for she will have been singled out to become Count Dracula’s chosen one.”
So this idiot was acting out his Dracula fantasies, just as Larry had thought. He might even have made it as a ham actor in some low-budget movie, he was good enough for that. He looked and acted the part even if he was a bit grubby when compared with the professionals. He was scary, too. Which was why Larry was anxious to appease him. There was a tart who worked the lower end of Bingley Street. Only in her teens, but she’d been there on every occasion Larry had made a tour of the red light area. If she happened to be there tonight, then it should be quite easy to pick her up and bring her back here.
It was.
~ * ~
It was only the ten pounds up front that made Larry’s task relatively easy. The girl was clearly suspicious. She usually took her clients to a piece of waste ground if they were just after a quickie. A longer session, back at her place, cost more, but she didn’t like going off to an unknown destination. However, with the promise of a further payment, she reluctantly agreed. She called herself Sally Ann and had an escalating drug addiction to finance, which she was open about. “What’s wrong with the ‘ouse?” She glanced behind her at the silhouette of the big house as she clutched Larry’s hand. She gave a gasp of fear when a branch of cold wet leaves touched her bare legs.
“I don’t like this.”
“It’s an annexe.”
“A what?”
“An outside place where our lodger lives. He’s a very wealthy man and I’m sure you’ll be well paid.”
“Better ‘ad be,” she shuddered. “This dump fair gives me the creeps.”
Sally Ann held back in the entrance to the air-raid shelter, but Larry pushed her forward. She gasped aloud when she saw her client. She might have screamed and tried to make a run for it, but his glowing eyes fastened on her, appeared to hypnotize her. He reached out, grabbed her wrist and dragged her towards him.
As Larry let himself back into the house he heard her muffled screams from below. Calling the police was out of the question now—he had become an accomplice of this strange man whose sexual fantasies led him to play the role of Count Dracula.
That’s what they were, Larry decided—sex fantasies, lived out to the extreme. The guy was just a dirty old man. All the same, it was both worrying and frightening.
~ * ~
There was no sign of life from the shelter next morning. Larry watched and waited, oblivious to his mother’s witterings.
“Larry, you’d better pop into town. We need some more bread and ...”
“I’ll go tomorrow, Mother, we can manage until then.”
“You’d better do some cleaning, this place is starting to get dirty.” It was filthy, had been for weeks, but she only noticed it when it became very bad.
“I’ll do it later.”
He kept watch from the landing window which overlooked the rear garden. The shrubs and trees were so overgrown that the shelter entrance was hidden from view, but he would be able to see anybody leaving in the direction of the house. He just hoped, if that happened, that his mother wouldn’t hear them. But there was no sign of anybody, and he certainly was not going out there to look.
The day wore on. The morning drizzle cleared and weak sunshine broke through the cloud formation. And still there was no movement from the shelter.
The afternoon was misty—in all probability a fog would roll in with darkness. Larry became increasingly uneasy. What was going on out there? Had they left via the rear garden, gone through the woods at the back? Had “Dracula” moved on to another abode and taken his comely wench with him—plied her with gold coins for her company and favours. If that was the case, good riddance to both of ‘em!
~ * ~
“I’m going up to bed now, dear.” Larry’s mother leaned in through the kitchen doorway. “Don’t you be too late coming up yourself. I didn’t hear you come to bed last night and I lay listening for hours.”
“Mother, I’m turned fifty ...” Oh, Christ, what was the point?
Larry decided to spend the night in the kitchen again. He was exhausted and yet sleep eluded him. He was kept awake by the nagging expectancy of another tapping at the window, pulling back the curtain to stare into the awful countenance of...
A tapping came on the window, fainter than before, not so insistent. Larry knew that he had to go and look. He steeled himself for the inevitable—those burning eyes and blood-red lips, a faint hissing that clouded the glass. Another demand, another whore.
But it wasn’t the strange lodger at the window. Instead, it was the prostitute who called herself Sally Ann, looking radiantly beautiful and smiling at him with full, soft lips.
“Let me in, Larry”, she mimed.
On this occasion there was almost an eagerness in his obedience. He put a finger to his lips and just hoped that his mother wasn’t awake and listening. At least the girl was alive and unharmed. His own worst deed was that of procuring a prostitute for another person. Mother would never survive the shame, and that might not be a bad idea.
“Where is he?” Larry asked as he let her into the house and locked the door behind her.
“Don’t you worry about him.” She stretched up on the balls of her feet and her soft lips brushed his own. “You’n me’ve got the whole night ahead of us, Larry.”
Larry had never really had a girlfriend before, just the odd one-night stand that had ended up in frustration and disappointment. All his attempts to get what he wanted most in life had been thwarted, either with lame excuses or downright refusals. Until now.
Sally Ann made the running. Her deft fingers removed his soiled clothing and she didn’t even appear to notice his unwashed body or his obesity. She flaunted her own nakedness, teased him, then finally came astride him.
Larry groaned his pleasure aloud. She didn’t have to do this, she wasn’t getting paid for it. So she had obviously taken a shine to him. Mother wouldn’t approve, but tonight was Larry’s night of pleasure and tomorrow could look after itself.
He knew he couldn’t hold back any longer and Sally Ann knew it too. Her beauty, her seductive smile, was a blur as he hit his peak. She writhed with him—they were like a duo of experienced ballet dancers who knew each other’s every move and went with it. Her lips found his then, slid a soft warm path down to his grimed neck. And bit deep.
It hurt, but he didn’t mind. He sensed the sticky warmth of his own blood. A love bite was a mark to be proud of when one had turned fifty.
They embraced again and he felt drowsy.
~ * ~
With the coming of daylight, she returned to her Master in his underground lair and Larry retired to his bedroom. Some time later his mother knocked on the door and enquired if he was all right.
“Just a migraine,” he answered sleepily.
“Then you stop in the dark all day”, she said. “I can cope.”
Truly he must remain in a darkened room throughout the daylight hours—not just today but every day from now on. Larry understood that only too well.
When darkness fell, he and Sally Ann would return to Bingley Street where there was work to be done. Her clients and his whores would swell the ranks of the undead whom the Master could command from his small tomb on English soil. Here the Count would learn to cope with a society that was a far cry from the one he remembered. And that society, too, would change and adapt. It would take time, but nobody would be overlooked.
Perhaps even Larry’s mother would be granted eternal life in her twilight years. Larry cringed at the thought, but the decision was not his. He was merely a slave to the Master now.
~ * ~