He will show up, Neal told himself. For all he knows, I can identify him. Besides, he’ll want to pay me back for shooting him. He’ll want to kill me.
Torture me first?
Strip me and tie me up, stick a bar of soap in my mouth so I can’t scream?
Do me the way he did Elise?
Going cold inside, Neal told himself that the guy probably wouldn’t work on him the way he’d worked on Elise. That had been a sex thing. Elise had been a beautiful woman.
It won’t get him off, doing that stuff to me.
Don’t count on it, Neal thought. What if he isn’t particular – goes both ways? Or maybe he’ll torture me just for the hell of it. For revenge. I hurt him; he’ll hurt me worse.
Have to get me first.
I’ll empty my gun into the bastard, Neal thought. Won’t matter how much he wants to torture me, he’s sprawled out dead with six slugs in his face.
Neal knew, however, that something could always go wrong.
He might get taken by surprise – jumped from behind. What if he drifted off to sleep while waiting for the killer to arrive? What if something went wrong with his pistol?
What if I empty it into him and he keeps on coming?
The idea seemed ridiculous, but sent tiny cold fingers scurrying up Neal’s spine. The nape of his neck went prickly with gooseflesh. His scalp crawled.
What if he isn’t human? Something immortal. A vampire, or something.
That’s crazy, Neal told himself. Of course he’s human. He bled, didn’t he? Vampires don’t bleed.
‘Shit,’ he muttered. ‘The bastard isn’t any vampire.’
Didn’t drink her blood, he thought.
How do you know? He bit her. He bit off pieces. God knows what kind of monster he is.
‘A man,’ Neal said.
A Jeffrey Dahmer sort of guy, he thought. Mad as a hatter, but die-able.
‘Ultimately die-able,’ Neal said. He smiled. He liked the sound of it.
Maybe use it in a script sometime, he thought.
‘Ultimately die-able,’ he repeated. ‘Bullet-resistant, but die-able.’
Diabolical.
Rasputin, Neal thought. But give him a shave and he’ll look like Nosferatu.
I’m not going over there, he decided.
Neal carried his overnight bag into Marta’s bedroom and set it on top of her dresser. He took out only the bracelet.
In the lamplight, the gold gleamed with a deep, rich lustre. The emerald eyes of the snake sparkled brilliant green. He turned the bracelet, inspecting it closely. The details were intricate.
A gorgeous piece of jewelry, he thought. Too bad it has to be a snake.
Snakes bite.
He shook his head.
He supposed that the snake design was probably symbolic of something.
How about the serpent in the Garden of Eden? Which was Satan, right?
It had been quite a few years since Neal had studied Paradise Lost, probably even longer since he’d read Genesis in The Bible. But it seemed to him that the serpent had led Adam and Eve ‘down the garden path’ by offering them forbidden fruit from the tree of knowledge – knowledge of good and evil.
Which is pretty much what the bracelet does, he thought.
Probably no accident that it was made in the form of a serpent.
A warning? A promise of forbidden knowledge?
He wondered if the bracelet, itself, might be evil.
No. That didn’t make sense. From what he’d seen of Elise, she had been a wonderful person – not a hint of meanness, dishonesty, or cruelty about her. She wouldn’t have used the bracelet, time and time again, if there’d been anything sinister about it.
Besides, Neal had already used it three times. He’d noticed nothing evil about the bracelet or its effects.
He only wished it had a different design, something less ominous than a snake.
Don’t worry about it, he told himself.
And slipped it onto his wrist.
Leaving the lamp on, he stepped over to Marta’s bed. He sat on the edge of the mattress and pulled off his shoes. Then he stretched out. He removed the pistol from his pocket, and placed it near his right hip.
As he raised his arm, he shut his eyes and tried to imagine Elise kissing the bracelet.
But he pictured her dead on the edge of the bathtub, naked and bloody and mutilated, her arms out, the bar of soap in her mouth. He could almost taste the soap.
Groaning, he kissed the gold head of the serpent.
My place, he thought as if giving directions to a cabby.
He felt himself rise out of his body, leaving behind its weight and aches. A moment later, he was outside the bedroom window. He glimpsed the balcony below him. Then he was above the dark swimming pool. He passed the far side of the apartment building as he climbed into the night. The moon was full, and very bright.
Suddenly too high for a good view of landmarks, he willed himself to descend. At treetop height, he prowled above the streets until he was able to orient himself. Then he headed straight for his own building.
He approached it from the front and swooped in through the wrought-iron bars of the closed gate. As he made a pass above the swimming pool, he scanned the area. Nobody in the pool. Nobody wandering outside, either on the ground level or on the balcony. Many of the apartment windows were dark, but some glowed with light from lamps or televisions on the other side of their curtains.
Maybe it’s still too early, Neal thought. Not even 11:30 yet. The bastard might not make his try till two or three in the morning, just to make sure nobody’ll be up and around.
Neal wondered if he would be able to remain that long.
He had no idea.
Gotta just play it by ear, he told himself.
And glided through the picture window and curtains of his living room.
The lights were off. He went to a wall switch and reached for it. No arm, however, appeared in his vision. He let out a small laugh, but didn’t hear it.
Who needs light, anyway? he thought. It’s not as if I’m going to crash into the furniture and hurt myself.
This is so damn odd!
Ought to be used to it by now, he told himself.
But the first trip last night, from the sofa to Elise and back, had started and ended very quickly. During the two trips that followed, he’d been preoccupied with worries about the killer and Elise, and hadn’t focused much attention on the wild, fabulous magic of his flying.
Now, he suddenly found himself marveling at it.
He could hardly believe that he was actually floating through his apartment five feet above the floor – actually able to see the dim shapes of everything, actually able to hear various sounds such as the motor of his refrigerator – though he had no eyes or ears. He had no body at all. He shouldn’t have any sensations at all.
For that matter, he shouldn’t even be here.
None of this should be happening. Every bit of common sense told him that he was in the midst of an impossible experience. You can’t leave your body behind and go on a flying trip like an odd patchwork of Peter Pan, the Invisible Man, and Casper the Friendly Ghost. It defied reality.
Only one way to accomplish such a feat – by dreaming it.
Maybe I’m asleep back at Marta’s place, he thought, and this is nothing but a dream. I had to be dreaming last night, too, when I thought I was taking those bracelet trips.
I imagined going into Elise? Hearing her thoughts? Feeling everything she felt?
We talked about it later.
Had he imagined that, too? Where did it all stop? When did the dream begin? Did he ever really meet Elise? Maybe he’d crashed on the way to Video City, and he’d been in a coma ever since.
Or dead.
‘Bullshit,’ he muttered.
I’m alive, he told himself. Alive and awake. This is not a dream.
Whatever’s going on, it’s happening. Who knows why? Just accept it.
&nbs
p; For now.
While pondering the strangeness of the situation, Neal had somehow roamed out of his apartment. He found himself drifting over the pool, moving toward the front gate.
As if being pulled by a subtle force.
He supposed it must be the same force that he’d experienced so strongly last night – the imaginary elastic strip connecting him to his body. Tonight, he hadn’t noticed it until now. Its pull felt very weak, barely noticeable.
Let’s check the alley, he thought.
He willed himself toward the rear gate.
The pull didn’t hold him back. He couldn’t even feel it as he jetted in silence past the end of the pool, past the laundry room and out the gate to the alley.
I’ll just make a quick run in both directions, he thought, then go back and wait in my . . .
Off to his right, far down the alley, a dark figure shambled toward him. He felt a quick lurch of fear.
Is it him?
Neal couldn’t tell. The stranger’s head was out of sight beneath a slouch-brimmed hat. A long, dark coat concealed the shape of his body.
Might even be a woman, Neal thought.
Or it might be the bastard coming for me.
One way to find out.
Even as he began to consider approaching for a closer look, he found himself suddenly rushing over the pavement, heading straight toward the stranger.
Who wore a cape, not a coat.
A cape?
Nobody wears a cape! What’s going on?
Neal gazed into the darkness under the slouch hat.
Is it him?
The gray of a narrow, beardless face.
I don’t know, Neal thought. Could’ve shaved, or . . .
Uh-oh!
Neal was suddenly inside the stranger.
No wounds.
The man seemed young and healthy and excited. He was sweaty inside the cape, but he kept it shut in spite of the warm night. The lining, where it rubbed him, felt like satin. He seemed to be wearing trunks, but no other clothes. From the calves down, he was encased in hot leather. The boots felt slimy inside, and his feet slid around in them as he limped through the alley.
A fake limp, Neal realized.
While taking a quick inventory of the body, he’d ignored the man’s mind. Now, he tuned in on it.
‘Yes yes yes. I am the creeper, creep-creep-creeping. All those who see me piss their pants. Where is everyone? Come out, come out, wherever you are. Here comes the creeper, creep-creep-creeping. Nightmare man. Who knows what evil lurks in my heart?’
Neal felt his glee, his anticipation.
What sort of nut is this guy? he wondered.
Not my nut.
‘Yes, yes, yes. Here I come, creeping down the alley. Come one, come all. Behold the creeper. I am the black heart of the night. I’m coming for you.’
Jesus H. Christ, Neal thought.
This is the sort of guy you find roaming down the alleys at night?
This and worse, he supposed. This guy is playing some sort of game.
While the weird monologue continued, another level of Creeper’s mind seemed to be amazed and thrilled by his oddball behavior. He seemed to have a fantasy about revealing his midnight strolls to friends. They wouldn’t find it cool, though, if he had to tell them about it. They’d need to find out by accident.
The fantasy – vague meanderings of thought when Neal first noticed it – became more and more focused. Soon, it broke into his monologue.
‘I creep this way and that through the alleys of the night, bringing terror to all who see me.’ Maybe I should say this stuff out loud. That’d be cool. Nobody around to hear me, though. So what? Who cares?
‘I am the creeper,’ he said, trying to make his voice a low, spooky groan. ‘Ho ho ho.’
Knock off the ho ho ho, I’m not Santa Claus.
‘I am the creeper,’ he tried again. ‘I own the night. I’m gathering souls. I eat them and laugh.’
What’s the good of all this if there’s nobody around? Need to have an audience.
I’ve got it! Find a security camera! Yes! Go to a 7-Eleven. They’re open all night, and they’ve got cameras.
Sound?
Doesn’t matter, I can say my stuff to the clerk.
Creeper seemed to be more frightened than thrilled by the idea of taking his show into a store. There would be so much light. And maybe customers.
All fine and dandy, but what if I run into hooligans?
Neal laughed. He wondered if, blocks away, his body was laughing on Marta’s bed.
The passing thought was interrupted when a movie-like scene started running through Creeper’s mind. The guy was imagining himself inside a brightly lighted 7-Eleven store, face to face with a gang of sneering, vicious teenage thugs. Seeing him, they mutter among themselves. Then they start pointing at him and laughing. He runs from the store. They chase him, hooting, shouting, ‘Fag!’
The scene made the Creeper feel hot with humiliation.
It’s a stupid, silly outfit!
He had a sudden urge to fling off the slouch hat and cape and shove them into the nearest garbage container.
But he pictured himself walking home, dressed in nothing except his swimming trunks and boots.
Neal saw the same mental image. A rear view of a young man, probably no older than eighteen, quite tall but skinny and weak, hurrying down an alley. Head shaved. Big ears sticking out. Skin so white it almost glowed. A skimpy little bikini-style swimming suit clinging to his skinny ass. Big old leather cowboy boots clumping along as if he were wearing buckets on his feet.
A pretty sorry picture, Neal thought.
Creeper thought so, too. He decided to stay in his slouch hat and cape.
Good idea, Neal thought.
Still hot and squirmy with embarrassment, Creeper was trying to recover.
Nobody laughs at the Creeper. ‘See me and scream. I am the demon of the night, a vulture and you’re my carrion. I peck your eyes out and swallow them whole.’ Shit.
The mood was gone.
This is no good. I should’ve stayed home. Must’ve been nuts. What if I run into someone I know? And they laugh at me? Who am I gonna scare in this get-up, anyway? I look like a refugee from a bad Halloween party.
Creeper turned around and started walking the other way. He no longer tried to look spooky, hunching himself over and limping. Afraid of being seen, he glanced over his shoulder every few seconds.
Ready to bolt and find a hiding place in case a car might come along.
Fun’s over, Neal thought. Time to go back to my apartment and wait for Rasputin.
No, no. Let’s stick with Creeper for a while longer. See if I can find out where he lives.
Though Neal didn’t care where Creeper might live, it would be a good experiment. If he could hitch his way to someone’s home, he’d be able to return there, later, in the flesh.
He might need to do that with Rasputin.
Find the bastard first, of course . . .
Let’s just see how it works.
Creeper reached the end of the alley. He checked both ways. No cars were coming, so he broke into a run and raced for the other side of the street. It was tough, running with boots on. Especially the way his sockless feet slid around in them. He couldn’t pump his arms, either; they were busy keeping the cape shut. But he made it across the street all right, and ran on into the alley.
Entering a stretch that had no lights, he flung open his cape and ran on, arms wide. The night air rushed against his sweaty body. The cape fluttered behind him.
Hey, nice.
Next time, ditch the boots. Run free.
He wanted the hat off so he could feel the fresh air on his scalp. But as he clamped a hand on the edge of its brim, a gate swung open a few yards in front of him. Someone barged out into the alley.
Sudden fright blasted through Creeper.
He yelped with alarm.
The woman, coming to an abrupt halt just outside t
he gate, turned her head toward him. Behind her, the iron gate banged shut. She dropped her garbage bag.
Creeper was scared, confused.
The woman didn’t move.
Creeper watched her as he ran closer.
She appeared to be in her early twenties, plump, with round glasses and a bowl-shaped haircut. She wore a tank top, as if proud to show off her thick arms, her breast tops, and the gorge of her cleavage. She also wore white shorts and white moccasins.
What a bow-wow.
Swell guy, Neal thought.
She flung her hands up to the sides of her face and screamed.
Oh, shit! Now look what I’ve done!
Creeper considered stopping to apologize. But glee suddenly surged through him.
He ran straight at the woman, reaching for her.
‘No!’ she squealed.
She whirled around and grabbed the gate. But she was too slow. Before she could open it, Creeper clamped a hand on her shoulder. She screamed again. It was shrill, ear-splitting.
‘I am the creeper,’ the guy said in the spookiest voice he could muster. ‘The night belongs to me, and so do you.’
As if unhinged by fear, the woman sank against the shut gate, cowering and whining.
Wow!
Creeper took a step backward, trembling. He could hardly believe that he had done such a thing to a person – scared the hell out of her, turned her into a cringing heap of mindless terror.
He felt disgusted at himself.
And elated.
She’s at my mercy! Why don’t I do more?
In the distance somewhere beyond the gate, a door banged shut. Creeper heard footsteps on a stairway.
He whirled around and ran down the alley, boots clumping, cape afly. Afraid he might soon find himself pursued by the gal’s husband or boyfriend, he glanced back.
Clear, so far.
He dodged into the nearest car port – a doorless structure with stalls for half a dozen vehicles. Every space was full. He slipped into the dark, narrow gap between a couple of parked cars.
Don’t touch ’em. Set off an alarm, and you’re screwed.
He made his way forward, then to the left. Midway between the headlights of a mid-sized car, he squatted down.
They won’t find me here.
After a while, he was able to control his breathing. He continued to tremble, though.
Scared that someone might come along and find him.