Read Online Tales from the Crypt - Demon Knight by Randall Boyll - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Randall Boyll
Ads: Link
it connected, the Salesman’s nose broke with a wet little snap, but he only turned again and smiled.
“At long last,” he breathed, and clamped both hands around Brayker’s neck. He lifted him an inch or two off the floor. “You’ve been lucky for too long,” he sneered. “I hope you like what happens next.”
Jeryline looked around for a club, an ashtray, any kind of weapon. There were chairs but they would splinter in a heartbeat. There were the curtain rods but they were flimsy aluminum.
“Remember Quebec?” the Salesman crowed. “Remember Seattle? Remember all the times you should have been dead?”
Jeryline spotted the oversized key. She dropped to her knees and crawled under Brayker while he shook and gobbled above her. It was heavy and cold. She staggered to her feet and swung it back like a knife, intending to stab it somewhere in the Salesman’s face, maybe his eye.
“Goodbye,” the Salesman said, and squeezed his hands tighter.
She drove the key toward his face with all her strength. An arm swung out and blocked the blow. She careened backward.
Brayker had done it. Though she had fallen on her butt, her arm was still a captive to his hand. His face had turned from blue into purple, and a thin line of blood slid from the corner of his mouth. His eyes, fixed on the key, were bulging so hard she thought they must pop out.
His hand slid down her arm to her hand. He jerked on the key, jerked again. Jeryline let him take it, stunned and bewildered.
“Fuck . . . you!” he gurgled, and mashed the key against the side of the Salesman’s face.
The Salesman screamed. Long tendrils of steam hissed out from under the key. He dropped Brayker but the key was still welded to his face. He pranced and whooped, slapping at it as if it were a wasp that could sting and sting again. As Brayker wobbled to his feet, the Salesman peeled the key away. New steam and smoke burst from his fingertips as he did. The key clunked on the floor and lay there with strings of flesh boiling on its edges.
The Salesman staggered and reeled to the nearest window, both hands clutching the side of his face. With a clumsy backward leap he crashed through it. Cold wind and wet drizzle blew inside, billowing the curtains while shards of glass crashed on the floor.
Choking and retching, Brayker crawled on his hands and knees to where the key had fallen. When he had it in his hand, he rose to his knees and stuffed it back into the leather pouch that Sheriff Tupper had belatedly found hidden under his clothes.
Uncle Willie, Irene, even Cordelia and tonight’s lover Roach, slowly stepped to the window. On the floor, Wally uttered a groan that everyone ignored.
“Don’t,” Brayker gasped. “Not yet.”
He clambered to his feet, one hand swiping away the blood from his mouth and chin. “It’s not over,” he said, his voice cracked and rasping. “It’s never over.”
Irene emitted a strange, strangled noise. “Look at what he’s doing,” she whispered. “Look!”
Jeryline stumbled past Brayker to get to the window. Irene’s porchlight was only a $8.99 K-Mart special Jeryline had picked up in Avery, and then installed for the bitch, but the poor light its forty-watt bulb cast was enough. On the porch the Salesman was furiously stripping off his shirt, where blotches of his own melted skin were smoldering. Lightning flashed nearby and in the tick of time it took for the thunder to report in, Jeryline saw his face illuminated. It was twisted, somehow pointy, wicked, scarred badly by the application of the antique key. Had he been wearing a mask? she wondered. She remembered a movie they had shown in the women’s prison about a year ago, a film where this guy could make artificial faces—she had liked it enough to write to her sister Joan in Albuquerque, asking that she send the book, if there was one. For a moment now her mind went gray: false faces, like in the book and movie? Or was this even more sinister than
“At long last,” he breathed, and clamped both hands around Brayker’s neck. He lifted him an inch or two off the floor. “You’ve been lucky for too long,” he sneered. “I hope you like what happens next.”
Jeryline looked around for a club, an ashtray, any kind of weapon. There were chairs but they would splinter in a heartbeat. There were the curtain rods but they were flimsy aluminum.
“Remember Quebec?” the Salesman crowed. “Remember Seattle? Remember all the times you should have been dead?”
Jeryline spotted the oversized key. She dropped to her knees and crawled under Brayker while he shook and gobbled above her. It was heavy and cold. She staggered to her feet and swung it back like a knife, intending to stab it somewhere in the Salesman’s face, maybe his eye.
“Goodbye,” the Salesman said, and squeezed his hands tighter.
She drove the key toward his face with all her strength. An arm swung out and blocked the blow. She careened backward.
Brayker had done it. Though she had fallen on her butt, her arm was still a captive to his hand. His face had turned from blue into purple, and a thin line of blood slid from the corner of his mouth. His eyes, fixed on the key, were bulging so hard she thought they must pop out.
His hand slid down her arm to her hand. He jerked on the key, jerked again. Jeryline let him take it, stunned and bewildered.
“Fuck . . . you!” he gurgled, and mashed the key against the side of the Salesman’s face.
The Salesman screamed. Long tendrils of steam hissed out from under the key. He dropped Brayker but the key was still welded to his face. He pranced and whooped, slapping at it as if it were a wasp that could sting and sting again. As Brayker wobbled to his feet, the Salesman peeled the key away. New steam and smoke burst from his fingertips as he did. The key clunked on the floor and lay there with strings of flesh boiling on its edges.
The Salesman staggered and reeled to the nearest window, both hands clutching the side of his face. With a clumsy backward leap he crashed through it. Cold wind and wet drizzle blew inside, billowing the curtains while shards of glass crashed on the floor.
Choking and retching, Brayker crawled on his hands and knees to where the key had fallen. When he had it in his hand, he rose to his knees and stuffed it back into the leather pouch that Sheriff Tupper had belatedly found hidden under his clothes.
Uncle Willie, Irene, even Cordelia and tonight’s lover Roach, slowly stepped to the window. On the floor, Wally uttered a groan that everyone ignored.
“Don’t,” Brayker gasped. “Not yet.”
He clambered to his feet, one hand swiping away the blood from his mouth and chin. “It’s not over,” he said, his voice cracked and rasping. “It’s never over.”
Irene emitted a strange, strangled noise. “Look at what he’s doing,” she whispered. “Look!”
Jeryline stumbled past Brayker to get to the window. Irene’s porchlight was only a $8.99 K-Mart special Jeryline had picked up in Avery, and then installed for the bitch, but the poor light its forty-watt bulb cast was enough. On the porch the Salesman was furiously stripping off his shirt, where blotches of his own melted skin were smoldering. Lightning flashed nearby and in the tick of time it took for the thunder to report in, Jeryline saw his face illuminated. It was twisted, somehow pointy, wicked, scarred badly by the application of the antique key. Had he been wearing a mask? she wondered. She remembered a movie they had shown in the women’s prison about a year ago, a film where this guy could make artificial faces—she had liked it enough to write to her sister Joan in Albuquerque, asking that she send the book, if there was one. For a moment now her mind went gray: false faces, like in the book and movie? Or was this even more sinister than
Similar Books
