Free Horror Show by Greg Kihn Page B

daughter had arrived.
    He smiled and waved when she called his name.
    â€œOh Daddy, would you please hurry up! I’m late!”
    â€œThat doesn’t surprise me,” he said as he slung his bag into the backseat.
    â€œWelcome home,” she chirped.
    â€œIt’s good to be home, Thora,” he replied.
    â€œA woman’s been calling for you.”
    Albert looked bemused. “A woman?”
    â€œYeah, she said it’s really important that you call her as soon as you get in.”
    The car pulled away, cutting into the traffic like a speedboat. Albert leaned over and kissed his daughter on the cheek before the inertial force pinned him back into the vinyl seat.
    â€œDoes she have a name?” he wanted to know, genuinely curious.
    â€œYeah, get this,” she said as the Pontiac careened into a turn. “It’s that late night horror show host on Channel Two, the one who looks like a sexy ghoul!”
    â€œDevila?”
    â€œUh-huh. Isn’t that exciting? She’s a big star!”
    Albert knew about Devila. He’d seen her many times on television, hosting a plethora of dreadful movies while she vamped for the cameras. He liked her look—pale skin and clingy black dress, with a witchy silver streak in her long, straight, midnight hair. But he had never met the woman.
    She was very big with the beatniks and the teenagers in Los Angeles. Albert Beaumond wondered what the connection could be.
    A horn blasted as his daughter swerved in front of another car.
    â€œWhy would she call me?”
    Thora weaved in and out of traffic with the brazen skill of a New York City taxi driver. Albert hung on for dear life, having forgotten how aggressive his daughter could be behind the wheel. “She wants to take you to a Halloween party.”
    Albert laughed. “That’s absurd.”
    â€œOh Daddy, you are the most handsome, available bachelor in town, you know,” she gushed.
    â€œI rather doubt that,” he replied, flattered by her assessment. “But, seriously, why me?”
    â€œWell,” said Thora proudly, a flash of smile splitting her face, “she said that you’re the scariest, sexiest man in Los Angeles, and that she’s the scariest, sexiest woman. She said everybody’s afraid of you, and that you’d be the perfect date for this party she’s going to tonight.”

5
    Darkness fell around the Landis Woodley fun house like a lead curtain, further sealing it off from the world of sanity and reason.
    Even though the clock showed eight o’clock on Halloween night, no trick-or-treaters came to the door. Not that Landis cared. If any costumed children ever did find the uninviting gray stucco building, down from the road and visible only from certain angles, he would have ignored them. Landis hated to answer the door.
    He had once thought of having a doorbell made that played back a tape recording of a dog barking and an angry voice shouting, “Go away! We don’t want you here!”
    He had Buzzy Haller go so far as to actually tape the warning, but he never got around to doing the wiring. Buzzy was much too important to Landis to waste his time working on small projects like that. Buzzy made the productions run. He was the monster maker, and, as Landis insisted, without a monster, you don’t have a movie.
    Landis stood upstairs in his bedroom, putting the finishing touches on his undertaker’s black tux, when he heard the front door slam.
    â€œBuzz?” he shouted.
    â€œYeah!” came the reply.
    â€œCome on up!”
    He heard the thumps of Buzzy Haller coming up the stairs, two at a time.
    â€œYou’ll never guess who’s comin’ to the party, man!” he gushed as he entered the room.
    Landis straightened his bow tie and cussed at his clumsiness. He ignored Buzzy, who continued talking.
    â€œNeal Cassidy! He’s the cat who’s the hero of the Jack Kerouac book, On the Road ,