The Beast About to Strike

Happy Friday, ya’ll.  Just a short excerpt from The Otherworlders. Click on the link to see previous excerpts and start following along.

. . .

Max made to climb up the front steps of the building but Andie hadn’t moved.  Instead she gently placed one hand on his arm and pointed up with the other.  Max’s apartment was on the third floor with a large window in the living room facing the street.  The last time they were there, the blinds covering the window had come crashing down on him.  Tonight, however, they were back up and light from a whirling ceiling fan cast long shadows against them.

Slowly unlocking the front door, they crept up three flights of stairs in silence.  Max drew his gun out as they moved swiftly up the stairs to his floor but as they drew nearer, they could hear music thumping through.  The beat was familiar, but Max couldn’t place it right away.  When they reached his landing, the music sounded eerie, and someone was speaking over it slowly and rhythmically.

“I know who this is,” Andie whispered exasperatedly, “I hate him.”

Max looked at her expecting her to go on. “You’ll see.  And keep that gun out,” Andie said as Max went to put it back inside his blazer.

The doorknob to Max’s apartment turned with ease but the door didn’t budge.  Andie braced herself against the door and pushed hard, there was a splintering noise.  Whoever was on the other side had boarded up the door uses planks of wood.

“. . . The demons squeal in sheer delight/It’s you they spy, so plump, so right. . .” Vincent Price’s voice filled the living room and filtered out into the hallway. All the furniture had been pushed to the side and someone stood in the middle of the living room with their back turned, someone who looked oddly familiar in a red leather jacket, black pants, and a geri curl.

“No,” Max gasped.

“You try to run, you try to scream/But no more sun you’ll ever see/For evil reached from the crypt/To crush you in its icy grip,” Price echoed.

“You shouldn’t be here,” Andie said firmly to the man’s back.  At this, in jerky dance moves, picking up his heels, the man wheeled around.  Max raised his gun immediately.  He looked exactly like Michael Jackson from the Thriller video.  The zombie Michael Jackson.

“The foulest stench is in the air/The funk of forty thousand years . . .”

. . .


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