Horror Show Read Free

he’d built plastic models of the Wolf Man, Frankenstein, and Dracula. The walls of his room were adorned with lurid movie posters and lobby cards, the stranger the better. Creatures carrying half-clad women were his specialty.
    A robot holding a woman in a skintight space suit, a werewolf carrying a blond bombshell back into the swamp, a look of utter depravity on his face—these were the things Clint cherished. The inference was always the same. These monsters were going to do it with the women.
    Those horrible claws were going to caress her breasts, those fangs were going to … It didn’t matter. He loved the come-on, the promise of mystery. The movies were never as good as the posters, of course. Usually the scene depicted never occurred in the film. His imagination always created a better story than the one up on the screen, anyway.
    In the end he was usually disappointed.
    He graduated from posters to other, more advanced items of memorabilia. At a shop in Burbank he bought props, old scripts, and pictures of his favorites.
    He studied journalism in junior college and took his share of film courses. His beloved creatures were never far behind. When he applied to Monster Magazine , he had no idea that he’d be hired just six weeks later, and sent out on one great assignment after another. He’d done profiles on all his favorite filmmakers: Tod Browning, Ray Harryhausen, William Castle, Roger Corman, and more.
    The enthusiasm of writers like Clint kept the magazine afloat.
    The Landis Woodley story was Clint’s idea. Roberta gave him her blessing and sent him on his way. She never said anything about having actually known the old man.
    Later that day Clint stood at the front door of Woodley’s house. This time his response came much quicker. Once again the view window opened, once again the bloodshot eyes.
    â€œYeah?” the old man growled.
    He’s not making this easy , Clint thought. He can’t have forgotten already, it’s only been a few hours .
    â€œIt’s me, sir, Clint Stockbern.”
    â€œWhat do you want?”
    â€œI’ve got the money.”
    â€œLet me see it.”
    Clint held up the packet of cash to the view plate. “Six hundred dollars.”
    The view plate slammed shut, the locks began to turn, and a half minute later the big door groaned open. Clint got the feeling that the old arch-topped entry hated to be used. It shrieked and moaned with an almost-human quality.
    Landis stood in the doorway, a smaller man than Clint had expected, but every bit as feisty and unpleasant.
    â€œGive it.” Clint passed him the packet. Woodley shoved it in a pocket without comment. Clint watched and waited, his reporter’s senses taking in everything.
    Woodley clutched a spit-soaked cigar and a cheap ballpoint pen, giving each equal physical attention. What is he writing , Clint wondered. A new screenplay ? The afternoon came alive with possibilities.
    The old man wore a maroon fifties-style, racetrack flash sport shirt and a pair of wrinkled gray pants. Everything he wore was shiny and threadbare, just like most of the upholstered furniture in the house.
    The frown never left his aged, television face. Lines, almost too many for one lifetime, crisscrossed that landscape in angry vectors. He’d combed what little hair he had left from the sides of his head across the top, giving it a thin, greasy blanket of yellowish-white thatch. It seemed an ill-advised hairstyle for Landis, one that only made him appear even more cheap and depraved. His eyes were deep-set in his pale face, ruthlessly scanning for carrion, two red wet spots in a gaunt mask.
    He stepped aside and drew his arm across his chest, “Come in, kid,” he mumbled.
    Clint followed him into another world. As Woodley shuffled a few paces ahead of Clint, the young man could see that Woodley was wearing battered bedroom slippers instead of shoes.
    Once inside, the first thing Clint