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Authors: Graham Masterton
Tags: Horror
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FIVE
T ilda was just about to climb into the bathtub when the doorbell rang. She stopped, one heavy leg still raised. Who was calling on her at this time of the evening? More to the point, who was calling on her at all? She had only one really close friend â Rosemary Shulman at the office â and Rosemary wouldnât come around to her apartment to see her, quite apart from the fact that she didnât drive.
She waited. Maybe somebody had made a mistake and pressed the wrong button. It happened now and again, especially at night, because the neighborhood kids were continually breaking the light over the porch. Once she had opened the door to be confronted by a handsome black man holding out a huge bouquet of yellow roses, but it had turned out that he was looking for Etta, the skinny black salesgirl who lived next door.
She dipped her toes into the foam to check how hot the water was. She had been paid on Friday, so she had indulged herself this evening with a chicken-dinner-for-two which she had preprepared at the Dream Dining franchise down on East Markland Avenue. She always made a dinner-for-two because it filled her up and stopped her snacking so much during the evening, and so that the kitchen helpers at Dream Dining wouldnât realize that she always ate alone, on her lap, in front of the TV.
The doorbell rang again, twice, as if the caller was growing impatient. She took her foot out of the water and bent over to dry between her toes, the way that her mother had always told her. She tugged at her straggly brown curls to make sure that she looked presentable, and then she took down the pink candlewick robe that was hanging on the back of the bathroom door, and put it on, grunting with the effort.
She crossed the living-room and went to the intercom beside the front door.
âWho is it?â she asked.
âPizza guy.â
âYou have the wrong apartment. I didnât order pizza.â
âI know. But this is free pizza. Complimentary, on the house.â The pizza guyâs voice sounded hoarse, as if he had asthma.
âWhat do you mean?â
âYou order pizza from Papa Joeyâs, donât you?â
âYes.â
âWell, this is your reward for being a loyal customer. Tonight every loyal customer gets free pizza.â
Tilda frowned. Somehow this didnât sound right. But on the other hand, she did regularly order pizza online from Papa Joeyâs, and if this wasnât a legitimate promotion, how did they know where she lived?
The hoarse voice said, âListen, maâam, I donât want to rush you or nothing, but I have twenty other deliveries to make. Do you want the free pizza or not?â
Tilda bit her lip in indecision. âThe problem is I ate tonight already. Can I have the pizza some other night? Like tomorrow night, maybe?â
âSorry, maâam. The offer is good for tonight only.â
âWhat topping is it?â
âSame as you always order. Hawaiian Barbecue Chicken.â
âOK, then,â she said. âIâll take it.â If the pizza guy knew what she regularly ordered, he must be legitimate. And even if she wasnât hungry now, she might be later, before she went to bed, and she could always save any uneaten slices for tomorrow morning. She enjoyed cold pizza for breakfast, just as much as she enjoyed cold fried chicken and cold cheeseburgers.
She pressed the entrance buzzer and after a moment she heard the elevator whining. She heard the doors jolt, too, as the elevator reached the second floor. But then there was a long silence, almost half a minute, and she inclined her head toward her front door, listening for footsteps. Nothing. Maybe this was a hoax. Some of the neighborhood kids shouted insults at her when she arrived home in the evening, calling her âlardassâ and âporkyâ and âthunder-thighsâ. But the pizza guy on the intercom hadnât sounded
FIVE
T ilda was just about to climb into the bathtub when the doorbell rang. She stopped, one heavy leg still raised. Who was calling on her at this time of the evening? More to the point, who was calling on her at all? She had only one really close friend â Rosemary Shulman at the office â and Rosemary wouldnât come around to her apartment to see her, quite apart from the fact that she didnât drive.
She waited. Maybe somebody had made a mistake and pressed the wrong button. It happened now and again, especially at night, because the neighborhood kids were continually breaking the light over the porch. Once she had opened the door to be confronted by a handsome black man holding out a huge bouquet of yellow roses, but it had turned out that he was looking for Etta, the skinny black salesgirl who lived next door.
She dipped her toes into the foam to check how hot the water was. She had been paid on Friday, so she had indulged herself this evening with a chicken-dinner-for-two which she had preprepared at the Dream Dining franchise down on East Markland Avenue. She always made a dinner-for-two because it filled her up and stopped her snacking so much during the evening, and so that the kitchen helpers at Dream Dining wouldnât realize that she always ate alone, on her lap, in front of the TV.
The doorbell rang again, twice, as if the caller was growing impatient. She took her foot out of the water and bent over to dry between her toes, the way that her mother had always told her. She tugged at her straggly brown curls to make sure that she looked presentable, and then she took down the pink candlewick robe that was hanging on the back of the bathroom door, and put it on, grunting with the effort.
She crossed the living-room and went to the intercom beside the front door.
âWho is it?â she asked.
âPizza guy.â
âYou have the wrong apartment. I didnât order pizza.â
âI know. But this is free pizza. Complimentary, on the house.â The pizza guyâs voice sounded hoarse, as if he had asthma.
âWhat do you mean?â
âYou order pizza from Papa Joeyâs, donât you?â
âYes.â
âWell, this is your reward for being a loyal customer. Tonight every loyal customer gets free pizza.â
Tilda frowned. Somehow this didnât sound right. But on the other hand, she did regularly order pizza online from Papa Joeyâs, and if this wasnât a legitimate promotion, how did they know where she lived?
The hoarse voice said, âListen, maâam, I donât want to rush you or nothing, but I have twenty other deliveries to make. Do you want the free pizza or not?â
Tilda bit her lip in indecision. âThe problem is I ate tonight already. Can I have the pizza some other night? Like tomorrow night, maybe?â
âSorry, maâam. The offer is good for tonight only.â
âWhat topping is it?â
âSame as you always order. Hawaiian Barbecue Chicken.â
âOK, then,â she said. âIâll take it.â If the pizza guy knew what she regularly ordered, he must be legitimate. And even if she wasnât hungry now, she might be later, before she went to bed, and she could always save any uneaten slices for tomorrow morning. She enjoyed cold pizza for breakfast, just as much as she enjoyed cold fried chicken and cold cheeseburgers.
She pressed the entrance buzzer and after a moment she heard the elevator whining. She heard the doors jolt, too, as the elevator reached the second floor. But then there was a long silence, almost half a minute, and she inclined her head toward her front door, listening for footsteps. Nothing. Maybe this was a hoax. Some of the neighborhood kids shouted insults at her when she arrived home in the evening, calling her âlardassâ and âporkyâ and âthunder-thighsâ. But the pizza guy on the intercom hadnât sounded
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