Allhallow's Eve: (Richard Laymon Horror Classic) by Richard Laymon
Authors: Richard Laymon
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A few of the stairs creaked as he descended, but nobody came to check.
He hurried into the kitchen, and turned on the light. A paring knife lay on the counter beside a carved lime.
It might break, he decided.
So he slid a butcher knife out of its rack. Holding it behind his back, he rushed to the front door. There, he put on his sneakers.
He ran across the yard, gritting his teeth against the chilly wind that blew through his pajamas. As he ran, he glanced up at the windows of his mother’s room. They were dark. Crouching by the front of Sam’s car, he stabbed the side of the tire. The point didn’t penetrate enough. He worked the knife with both hands, pushing hard against it. Suddenly, it rammed deep. Rubber-smelling air hissed into his face.
As the corner of the car sank, he crawled to the rear. He sat on the wet grass, feet against the tire. Leaning forward, be held the knife to the whitewall. He stomped his heel against its butt. The knife punched in.
Eric tugged the knife free, and stepped into the street.He sat down on the cold pavement, held the knife in place, and kicked. It went easily into the third tire.
He did the same to the final tire.
That’ll fix you, he thought.
His jaw hurt from clenching his teeth. He opened his mouth wide, and tried to work out the tension.
Peeling the wet pajamas away from his rump, he looked up and down the block. He saw no one. He glanced again at his mother’s windows.
They’re too busy to see me, he thought.
It didn’t matter, though.
Sam would know who’d done it.
Maybe the dirty bastard would get the message.
Eric ran back to the house. He entered its warmth, and took off his shoes. Picking them up, he walked silently into the lighted kitchen.
The knife blade was streaked with black from the tires.
If he put it back in the rack without cleaning it … How could he clean it without making noise? Soap and water might not work, anyway. He’d need to use paint thinner, or nail polish remover, something like that. Rubbing alcohol? A whole bottle of it stood in the medicine cabinet.
Turning off the light, he left the kitchen. He held the knife behind his back, and went to the stairway. The hall above was still dark. He slowly climbed the stairs, cringing each time the wood creaked under his feet.
At the top, he looked down the hall. The door of his mother’s room was still shut. He turned to the right, and tiptoed into the bathroom.
He locked the door. He flicked the light on, andopened the medicine cabinet. The rubbing alcohol sloshed in its plastic bottle as he lifted it down. He poured the clear liquid onto a wad of toilet paper. It soaked through, feeling strange on his fingers – burning and cool at the same time.
He rubbed it on the knife. The black streaks of rubber seemed to dissolve. In less than a minute the blade was sleek and shiny. He wiped it dry with more toilet paper, tossed both wads into the bowl and automatically reached out to flush. As his fingertips touched the handle, he realized what he was about to do. He pulled his hand away.
With the bottle back in the medicine cabinet, he picked up his shoes and knife. He silently opened the door, and walked up the hallway. He passed the stairs. He continued up the hall and put his shoes just inside his room. As he pulled the door shut, he heard a quiet gasp.
It came from his mother’s room.
Heart suddenly hammering, he tiptoed to her door. He stood there, listening. From inside came muffled sounds of harsh breathing and moans and the squeaking bed.
He saw that the door was open a crack.
His heart pounded so hard that he felt dizzy and sick.
Stepping forward, he pressed gently against the door. The crack widened.
In the light from the windows, he saw them. Their tangled, thrusting bodies were dark against the sheets. He couldn’t tell one from the other.
Pushing the door wide open, he stepped into the room. He walked toward the bed.
It was Sam on top, Mom under him with her knees up,
He hurried into the kitchen, and turned on the light. A paring knife lay on the counter beside a carved lime.
It might break, he decided.
So he slid a butcher knife out of its rack. Holding it behind his back, he rushed to the front door. There, he put on his sneakers.
He ran across the yard, gritting his teeth against the chilly wind that blew through his pajamas. As he ran, he glanced up at the windows of his mother’s room. They were dark. Crouching by the front of Sam’s car, he stabbed the side of the tire. The point didn’t penetrate enough. He worked the knife with both hands, pushing hard against it. Suddenly, it rammed deep. Rubber-smelling air hissed into his face.
As the corner of the car sank, he crawled to the rear. He sat on the wet grass, feet against the tire. Leaning forward, be held the knife to the whitewall. He stomped his heel against its butt. The knife punched in.
Eric tugged the knife free, and stepped into the street.He sat down on the cold pavement, held the knife in place, and kicked. It went easily into the third tire.
He did the same to the final tire.
That’ll fix you, he thought.
His jaw hurt from clenching his teeth. He opened his mouth wide, and tried to work out the tension.
Peeling the wet pajamas away from his rump, he looked up and down the block. He saw no one. He glanced again at his mother’s windows.
They’re too busy to see me, he thought.
It didn’t matter, though.
Sam would know who’d done it.
Maybe the dirty bastard would get the message.
Eric ran back to the house. He entered its warmth, and took off his shoes. Picking them up, he walked silently into the lighted kitchen.
The knife blade was streaked with black from the tires.
If he put it back in the rack without cleaning it … How could he clean it without making noise? Soap and water might not work, anyway. He’d need to use paint thinner, or nail polish remover, something like that. Rubbing alcohol? A whole bottle of it stood in the medicine cabinet.
Turning off the light, he left the kitchen. He held the knife behind his back, and went to the stairway. The hall above was still dark. He slowly climbed the stairs, cringing each time the wood creaked under his feet.
At the top, he looked down the hall. The door of his mother’s room was still shut. He turned to the right, and tiptoed into the bathroom.
He locked the door. He flicked the light on, andopened the medicine cabinet. The rubbing alcohol sloshed in its plastic bottle as he lifted it down. He poured the clear liquid onto a wad of toilet paper. It soaked through, feeling strange on his fingers – burning and cool at the same time.
He rubbed it on the knife. The black streaks of rubber seemed to dissolve. In less than a minute the blade was sleek and shiny. He wiped it dry with more toilet paper, tossed both wads into the bowl and automatically reached out to flush. As his fingertips touched the handle, he realized what he was about to do. He pulled his hand away.
With the bottle back in the medicine cabinet, he picked up his shoes and knife. He silently opened the door, and walked up the hallway. He passed the stairs. He continued up the hall and put his shoes just inside his room. As he pulled the door shut, he heard a quiet gasp.
It came from his mother’s room.
Heart suddenly hammering, he tiptoed to her door. He stood there, listening. From inside came muffled sounds of harsh breathing and moans and the squeaking bed.
He saw that the door was open a crack.
His heart pounded so hard that he felt dizzy and sick.
Stepping forward, he pressed gently against the door. The crack widened.
In the light from the windows, he saw them. Their tangled, thrusting bodies were dark against the sheets. He couldn’t tell one from the other.
Pushing the door wide open, he stepped into the room. He walked toward the bed.
It was Sam on top, Mom under him with her knees up,
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