Scratching the Door
Title:Scratching the Door
Author: Corycides
Disclaimer: not my characters; they all belong to Fright Night 2011
Warnings: Sex, discussion of rape
Pairings: Charley/Amy, Amy/Jerry
Wordcount: 1400
Despite being a world-renowned illusionist, escape artist and vampire killer (at least two, he’d told Amy giddily) Peter put an awful lot of trust in a locked desk drawer. Amy knelt on the carpet, pushing her hair back behind her ear irritably, and jimmied the lock open with a penknife and a nail. (Hopefully not the Crucifixion nail, Amy didn’t need to add blasphemy to ‘briefly being a vampire’ on her sins list.)
The lock gave with a soft pop and Amy gently slid it out. It was stuffed with newspapers and print-outs from online, articles ringed in red pen and paper stained with green liquor. Amy bit her lip and lifted them out, spreading them out on the floor.
Teri Slater had committed suicide days after returning from an unplanned holiday. No note. Graham Lewis had been committed after turning himself in to the police station in a ‘disturbed mental state’, claiming to be a vampire. Harriet Disrali had been arrested after vandalising her synagogue. Etta Bennet, suicide. Peter Bennet, murdered. Ron Franklin, suicide.
Each name conjured a pale, hungry face in Amy’s memory. They had all been Jerry’s victims. Charley had saved them all. Or, so they’d thought.
Amy’s hands were shaking so much she could hardly read the print out she was holding. It was from one of the little town’s outside Las Vegas. A local man, Carl King, had come back from his trip to Vegas with empty pockets and an ‘odd’ mood. He had been one of the oldest in the nest, a puffy-faced, petty little man in a sweat and dirt stained suit. He’d been caught leaving town with a prostitute tied up in the boot of his car. On his way back to Vegas.
Scritch-itch-scritch in the back of her head, poking around for a way into her brain. Wanting her to do something, wanting her to… ‘Come and get me.’
The paper slipped from Amy’s nerveless fingers, floating down onto the floor. Vomit scalded the back of her throat and she scrambled to her feet, dashing for the bathroom. She barely made it, kicking the door shut behind her as she retched out her breakfast into the toilet.
He might be dead, but Jerry wasn’t gone.
‘Charley will come,’ Amy said defiantly, even as she stumbled backwards away from Jerry. There wasn’t very far to go before her shoulders hit dirt. ‘He’ll kill you.’
Jerry leant back against the door, crossing long, jean-clad legs at the ankle, and looked pleased with himself. Secretly, Amy didn’t blame him. She was very fond of Charley, but one of the football players had once put him head down in a bin. And Jerry could probably snap a football player in half.
‘I’m sure he will, sweetheart,’ he said.
‘Amy,’ she snapped.
He raised his eyebrows at her, and how had they ever thought he was charming? Human? Why had she let him bite her? Why hadn’t she screamed for help? Amy’s mouth was so dry it felt like sand, mixed with blood, but she glared at him anyhow.
‘My name is Amy.’
He shrugged like it didn’t matter and pushed himself off the door, walking towards her with his hand held out like she’d take it. It wasn’t until his fingers closed around hers that she realised she had. She stared at their linked hands in shock.
‘I’m going to have a long, long time to learn about you, sweetheart,’ Jerry promised, pulling her into his body. One hand found the flare of her hip and WHAT WAS SHE DOING? Amy tried to squirm away, but she couldn’t…couldn’t remember why she’d want to? Her jaw ached and her fingers stung, it felt natural to rest against Jerry. He nibbled his way down her neck and licked her throat, dragging his tongue over the open wound. ‘We’re going to have forever.’
Her knees gave out under her and she collapsed in a heap to the tiles, hugging the cold porcelain bowl to keep herself from going foetal. The smell of orange juice and croissant vomit hung under her nose, threatening the precarious stability of her stomach. She closed her eyes and turned her face into her arm to ignore it.
Or course he wasn’t gone. In those old Hammer Horror films her Mum watched, Dracula had come back from being staked and decapitated about a gazillion times. A parking ticket was more of an inconvenience for him. Maybe Jerry wasn’t in that league, but they should have considered it.
Jerry Dandridge was still out there somewhere, and that wasn’t the worst of it. Amy rubbed her forehead with her fingertips, he was in here somewhere as well. Tears prickled at the back of her lids and slid down her face. It wasn’t enough that she could still feel him on her skin, almost see the smudges on her breasts and thighs were he’d touched her, now he was in her head too?
She was never going to be done with this, was she?
Silent tears turned to wet, hitching sobs, muffled against her hand. It felt like she was wrapped in a duvet of panic and despair, nothing to push against, to fight. Just this soft, damp weight that oozed through her fingers. Caught up in it, she hardly even noticed the sound of the lift reaching Peter’s floor. It was the sound of Charley’s voice that made her lift her head.
‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘She ran out of school after history, and if she isn’t at home…’
The sound of two pairs of feet on the tiles echoed, so Amy wasn’t surprised when Peter finished the sentence. ‘Then she’d probably be here,’ he said, sounding sleepy and half-cut. ‘You didn’t need to wake me though. Those twins were just going to show me some tricks.’
‘They weren’t twins,’ Charley said.
‘Eh, they were hot.’ There was a pause and Peter’s voice went thoughtful. ‘I think I hired them on the show. Tell the stage manager for me? Oh hell.’
They were outside now. Amy was going to get up and say something. She was. Just as soon as she wiped her face and picked the knots out of her damp hair. She rubbed her sleeves over her face and used the toilet to lever herself up to her feet. Her eyes were stinging and her nose felt red raw. She pulled a handful of paper from the roll and snorted quietly into it.
'Great,' Charley muttered, kicking something. 'I didn't want her to know about this.'
Glass clinked. 'Maybe she should.'
'No. She's been through enough, I don't want her to worry about anything else. Not when we don't know anything. I mean, maybe these people just-'
'Snapped?' Peter offered helpfully. 'Went batshit, around the bend, down crazy lane?'
'Something like that. I mean, what happened to them. To Amy. It was pretty bad.'
Amy balled the tissue up in her hand and held her breath, so aware of the thing in the back of her brain that she thought she could hear it. They didn't know about the scritching, about Jerry. Charley wouldn't, of course, and Peter had spent so much time pickling his brains that he was probably used to ignoring voices.
She had to tell them.
Except she didn't move, just stood there tasting snot and breathing in the smell of her own puke. Tell them and they'd help, but they'd know. She'd have to talk about it, have to tell them everything. They would know and every time they looked at her, she'd know they were thinking about it.
So...she should tell them, but she wasn't going to. Not unless she had to.
Amy sat down on the side of the bath, the chill of the porcelain nipping at her legs, and tried to think. Outside the guys - and yuck, that was a phrase she'd need to phrase out. Thanks again, Jerry - talked for a while. Then Charley left and Peter headed to bed. When she heard him start to snore, Amy got up, flushed the toilet gingerly and left the apartment.
On her way down in the lift, she dialled Mark's number.
'Hey,' she said when he answered. It had been a while since she'd seen him. His parents had thought he'd od'd or something and pulled him out of school for a semester to get him straightened up. 'We need to talk....About Jerry.'
Author: Corycides
Disclaimer: not my characters; they all belong to Fright Night 2011
Warnings: Sex, discussion of rape
Pairings: Charley/Amy, Amy/Jerry
Wordcount: 1400
Despite being a world-renowned illusionist, escape artist and vampire killer (at least two, he’d told Amy giddily) Peter put an awful lot of trust in a locked desk drawer. Amy knelt on the carpet, pushing her hair back behind her ear irritably, and jimmied the lock open with a penknife and a nail. (Hopefully not the Crucifixion nail, Amy didn’t need to add blasphemy to ‘briefly being a vampire’ on her sins list.)
The lock gave with a soft pop and Amy gently slid it out. It was stuffed with newspapers and print-outs from online, articles ringed in red pen and paper stained with green liquor. Amy bit her lip and lifted them out, spreading them out on the floor.
Teri Slater had committed suicide days after returning from an unplanned holiday. No note. Graham Lewis had been committed after turning himself in to the police station in a ‘disturbed mental state’, claiming to be a vampire. Harriet Disrali had been arrested after vandalising her synagogue. Etta Bennet, suicide. Peter Bennet, murdered. Ron Franklin, suicide.
Each name conjured a pale, hungry face in Amy’s memory. They had all been Jerry’s victims. Charley had saved them all. Or, so they’d thought.
Amy’s hands were shaking so much she could hardly read the print out she was holding. It was from one of the little town’s outside Las Vegas. A local man, Carl King, had come back from his trip to Vegas with empty pockets and an ‘odd’ mood. He had been one of the oldest in the nest, a puffy-faced, petty little man in a sweat and dirt stained suit. He’d been caught leaving town with a prostitute tied up in the boot of his car. On his way back to Vegas.
Scritch-itch-scritch in the back of her head, poking around for a way into her brain. Wanting her to do something, wanting her to… ‘Come and get me.’
The paper slipped from Amy’s nerveless fingers, floating down onto the floor. Vomit scalded the back of her throat and she scrambled to her feet, dashing for the bathroom. She barely made it, kicking the door shut behind her as she retched out her breakfast into the toilet.
He might be dead, but Jerry wasn’t gone.
‘Charley will come,’ Amy said defiantly, even as she stumbled backwards away from Jerry. There wasn’t very far to go before her shoulders hit dirt. ‘He’ll kill you.’
Jerry leant back against the door, crossing long, jean-clad legs at the ankle, and looked pleased with himself. Secretly, Amy didn’t blame him. She was very fond of Charley, but one of the football players had once put him head down in a bin. And Jerry could probably snap a football player in half.
‘I’m sure he will, sweetheart,’ he said.
‘Amy,’ she snapped.
He raised his eyebrows at her, and how had they ever thought he was charming? Human? Why had she let him bite her? Why hadn’t she screamed for help? Amy’s mouth was so dry it felt like sand, mixed with blood, but she glared at him anyhow.
‘My name is Amy.’
He shrugged like it didn’t matter and pushed himself off the door, walking towards her with his hand held out like she’d take it. It wasn’t until his fingers closed around hers that she realised she had. She stared at their linked hands in shock.
‘I’m going to have a long, long time to learn about you, sweetheart,’ Jerry promised, pulling her into his body. One hand found the flare of her hip and WHAT WAS SHE DOING? Amy tried to squirm away, but she couldn’t…couldn’t remember why she’d want to? Her jaw ached and her fingers stung, it felt natural to rest against Jerry. He nibbled his way down her neck and licked her throat, dragging his tongue over the open wound. ‘We’re going to have forever.’
Her knees gave out under her and she collapsed in a heap to the tiles, hugging the cold porcelain bowl to keep herself from going foetal. The smell of orange juice and croissant vomit hung under her nose, threatening the precarious stability of her stomach. She closed her eyes and turned her face into her arm to ignore it.
Or course he wasn’t gone. In those old Hammer Horror films her Mum watched, Dracula had come back from being staked and decapitated about a gazillion times. A parking ticket was more of an inconvenience for him. Maybe Jerry wasn’t in that league, but they should have considered it.
Jerry Dandridge was still out there somewhere, and that wasn’t the worst of it. Amy rubbed her forehead with her fingertips, he was in here somewhere as well. Tears prickled at the back of her lids and slid down her face. It wasn’t enough that she could still feel him on her skin, almost see the smudges on her breasts and thighs were he’d touched her, now he was in her head too?
She was never going to be done with this, was she?
Silent tears turned to wet, hitching sobs, muffled against her hand. It felt like she was wrapped in a duvet of panic and despair, nothing to push against, to fight. Just this soft, damp weight that oozed through her fingers. Caught up in it, she hardly even noticed the sound of the lift reaching Peter’s floor. It was the sound of Charley’s voice that made her lift her head.
‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘She ran out of school after history, and if she isn’t at home…’
The sound of two pairs of feet on the tiles echoed, so Amy wasn’t surprised when Peter finished the sentence. ‘Then she’d probably be here,’ he said, sounding sleepy and half-cut. ‘You didn’t need to wake me though. Those twins were just going to show me some tricks.’
‘They weren’t twins,’ Charley said.
‘Eh, they were hot.’ There was a pause and Peter’s voice went thoughtful. ‘I think I hired them on the show. Tell the stage manager for me? Oh hell.’
They were outside now. Amy was going to get up and say something. She was. Just as soon as she wiped her face and picked the knots out of her damp hair. She rubbed her sleeves over her face and used the toilet to lever herself up to her feet. Her eyes were stinging and her nose felt red raw. She pulled a handful of paper from the roll and snorted quietly into it.
'Great,' Charley muttered, kicking something. 'I didn't want her to know about this.'
Glass clinked. 'Maybe she should.'
'No. She's been through enough, I don't want her to worry about anything else. Not when we don't know anything. I mean, maybe these people just-'
'Snapped?' Peter offered helpfully. 'Went batshit, around the bend, down crazy lane?'
'Something like that. I mean, what happened to them. To Amy. It was pretty bad.'
Amy balled the tissue up in her hand and held her breath, so aware of the thing in the back of her brain that she thought she could hear it. They didn't know about the scritching, about Jerry. Charley wouldn't, of course, and Peter had spent so much time pickling his brains that he was probably used to ignoring voices.
She had to tell them.
Except she didn't move, just stood there tasting snot and breathing in the smell of her own puke. Tell them and they'd help, but they'd know. She'd have to talk about it, have to tell them everything. They would know and every time they looked at her, she'd know they were thinking about it.
So...she should tell them, but she wasn't going to. Not unless she had to.
Amy sat down on the side of the bath, the chill of the porcelain nipping at her legs, and tried to think. Outside the guys - and yuck, that was a phrase she'd need to phrase out. Thanks again, Jerry - talked for a while. Then Charley left and Peter headed to bed. When she heard him start to snore, Amy got up, flushed the toilet gingerly and left the apartment.
On her way down in the lift, she dialled Mark's number.
'Hey,' she said when he answered. It had been a while since she'd seen him. His parents had thought he'd od'd or something and pulled him out of school for a semester to get him straightened up. 'We need to talk....About Jerry.'