Wayne C. Rogers
The May First Selected Writer is Wayne C. Rogers
Please feel free to email Wayne at: Ivbookman@aol.com
THE LAST NIGHT
by Wayne C. Rogers
Las Vegas, December 18, 1987
It was dark outside on Palomino Lane when Peter Jefferson awoke from his terrifying nightmare. He found himself curled up underneath the covers of his bed, shivering as much from the bad dream as from the bitter chill in the air.
He vaguely remembered feeling a black, threatening shape drawing closer as it chased him relentlessly through the Gothic-styled structure with its turrets and gables. He couldn’t seem to find a way out of the old house. No matter which direction he ran, it always ended in a cul-de-sac. The heavy breathing of the thing behind him grew steadily louder, bringing with it a sense of impending doom.
It was the urgent cry of the hard wind outside, whipping around the bare oak trees in the backyard, which jerked Peter back from his already fading memories and caused him to roll over. He immediately saw the raised window across from the bed.
“What the fuck,” he said to himself.
Throwing the quilt to the side, he slipped out of bed with nothing on and quickly pushed the window down, locking it at the top. He then jumped back beneath the covers and pulled the quilt up over his shoulders in an effort to get warm.
He wondered who had opened the window.
Could he have done it while sleepwalking? Was that how he was going to escape from the black shape running after him? Jump out a three-story window and fall to his death?
Of course, strange things had been happening to him since he’d moved into the house during the middle of November. Too many to tell you the truth, and he was scared shitless. What had started out as a lark when he’d first purchased the place in early October—thinking it would be a great home for a former director of horror films to live in—was now one long, never-ending nightmare.
So many bizarre things had happened during the past six weeks that he was now giving the house back to the bank with a big fuck you and moving into an apartment in Los Angeles. That would hold him until he found a more permanent place to live.
Looking at the clock on the nightstand, he saw it was only 2:20 AM in the morning. The movers wouldn’t arrive till eight. He had to survive for less than six more hours, and then he was out of here.
Piece of cake, he thought.
That was when he heard the sharp whistling noises of the wind blowing through the rafters in the attic of the old house. Even worse, he could hear the sound of high-heeled shoes click-clacking on the floor outside of his closed bedroom door.
Peter knew he was alone in the house. At least, he was the only living one.
He remembered what the eager realtor had told him before he’d written out a check for the down payment. The nicely-dressed woman had warned him about the spirit of Lady Anne, who had owned the house during the sixties and seventies, and had been the most famous dominatrix in Las Vegas…maybe even the country. She’d also murdered two husbands and several clients in the basement of the house.
Peter had assumed it was nothing but a good sell’s pitch, until he started hearing mysterious voices at night, crying out in relentless pain. When he’d gone to investigate, he had seen the vague shapes of people standing at the bottom of the stairs or at the end of the long hallways. The shapes had always disappeared once he reached them. He had even heard the sounds of people being whipped and their frantic pleas for mercy. So far, he had never seen the spirit of Lady Anne, but he had a strange feeling that was about to change.
The clicking of the high-heeled shoes stopped.
“Peter?” a feminine voice said with a light tap at the door. “I want you to come out and play with me.”
He stared at the closed door with wide, fearful eyes.
“It’s time you and I met.”
He didn’t say anything. He was too afraid to move.
“Answer me, Peter.”
He was holding his breath, afraid she could actually hear him breathing in the confines of the bedroom. “Go away,” he finally said.
There was a chuckle on the other side of the door. “You’ll be sorry,” she said. “I’m not someone who takes rejection lightly.”
“I’m already sorry,” he said softly.
The bedroom door made a strange noise as if it was yawning. Peter lifted his head from the pillow and stared at it, watching as the door slowly bulged outward like a balloon being blown up. It reminded him of something from a Shirley Jackson novel. Just when it appeared the door was going explode, it flew open and slammed backwards into the adjacent wall, startling him with a loud banging sound.
Flipping the quilt back from his body, Peter momentarily swallowed his fear and climbed out of bed. He made his way over to the door, ignoring the cold hardwood floor, and began to swing it shut. That was when he heard the faint sound of big-band music and laughter. He listened more intently and realized it was coming from downstairs.
He snatched his slippers and bathrobe from the foot of the bed and put them on. Then, stepping cautiously out of the bedroom, he switched on the overhead light in his small living room and saw there was no one standing there, ghost or otherwise.
Walking over to the wooden door that was the entrance to his third-floor quarters, he yanked it open and stood there hovering on the edge of the stairwell. His eyes followed the steps down into the descending blackness. The music and voices seemed louder as he wavered there with indecision. Letting out a sigh of resignation, he began to make his way down the narrow staircase, placing his right palm against the side wall for support, taking one step at a time. He was alert for Lady Anne’s spirit and wondered why it had taken her so long to appear.
When he reached the second floor, he made his way quietly across the hall and packed boxes to the elegantly-carved banister that separated the landing from the opulent living room down below. He inched his head over the railing and blinked in shock at what he saw. Being from Hollywood should’ve prepared him for the worse, but he was still stunned by the scene that presented itself to him.
There was certainly a party going on to the sound of Benny Goodman music on a stereo, but it was more like a debauchery from of a Fellini film. Peter counted at least thirty individuals in various modes of undress, though there were still a few wearing their black leather or rubber outfits. The others, if not totally naked, were wearing corsets and garters belts with black sheer nylons and black leather pumps with four-inch heels.
Some of the men were dressed up like sexy French maids. As Peter’s shocked eyes moved from one corner to the next, he also saw a half-dressed woman lying on the grand piano being kissed and fondled by another female. There were also collared-and-leashed men sexually pleasing their Mistresses and Masters. The bizarre thing (not that the whole situation wasn’t right out of The Twilight Zone) were the groups of people milling around in small clusters, talking excitedly to each other and drinking flutes of champagne. They appeared not to notice the strange goings-on, or simply chose to ignore them.
Rubbing his eyes in disbelief, Peter started backing away from the banister so he could return to his bedroom where he was safe. That was when he heard the silky voice of Lady Anne behind him.
“Going somewhere, Peter?” she asked.
He spun around and saw her standing a few feet away, wearing a skin-tight, black leather outfit with high-heeled boots that tied up the front. Her long black hair cascaded downward over the padded shoulders of her exotic outfit and black eyeliner highlighted her dark, piercing eyes. There was even a slight touch of blush on her high cheekbones to give them color and blood-red lipstick accenting her full, sensuous lips.
The real estate lady hadn’t lied after all, he thought.
He could understand why so many men had flocked to Lady Anne, begging to be her personal slave. She had a type of Angelina Jolie beauty that radiated an intense sexual energy. He could even feel his own body responding to it.
“I see you’re happy to meet me,” she said.
“I, uh—”
“You’ve been a naughty boy, Peter. You’re planning to leave me with no one to play with.”
“You have it all wrong.”
“Get down your hands and knees,” she ordered. “Honor me like a good slave.”
Without a second thought, Peter darted around Lady Anne’s ghost and ran as fast as he could down the left side of second-floor hallway. He passed the first two bedrooms when the hall seemed to suddenly stretch outward into infinity. He stopped and stared at the seemingly endless hallway and the countless doors lining up on each side. He knew it was an illusion, but it still blew his mind.
Not knowing what to do, Peter turned around and sped back to the staircase that led up to the third floor. He ignored Lady Anne, who was still standing there and watching him with a smirk on her face. He raced up the stairs and was almost to the door when it slammed shut with a BANG.
“You’re not going anywhere,” Lady Anne’s voice rang out.
Peter stood, gazing silently at the closed door with a forlorn feeling. He tried to turn the metal handle, but the door wouldn’t budge. After a few seconds, he sat down on the top step and huddled in the corner of the wall with his arms wrapped tightly around his upper body.
“You think you know what I’m capable of doing, but you’re wrong. There are so many ways to hurt a man…ways that would have you begging for my mercy in a matter of seconds. If I have to come up and get you, I might just take you down to the basement and skin you alive. Would you enjoy that?”
Peter didn’t answer. He continued to sit with his body shaking from fear. He was shivering so hard that his teeth were chattering.
Then, he heard the sound of footsteps coming up the stairs.
He tried to become one with the wall, but there was nowhere to go. A moment passed, and then he felt something dry and leathery wrapping itself around his bare ankle. He screamed as he was jerked off the step and pulled roughly down the stairs like a bouncing ball. By the time he was lying at the bottom, his lower back was bruised and aching. He had a knot on the back of his head from hitting it on the last two steps.
Lady Anne placed the bottom of her left boot to Jefferson’s cheek and pressed down as if she were attempting to grind his face into the floor. He couldn’t stop from moaning out in pain. The sound brought a cruel smile to her face. “You must like being a slave if you’re staying on the third floor.”
He attempted to grab her calf in a futile effort to shove her foot off of his cheek, but she simply swatted his hand away and ground even harder as if she was putting out a cigarette.
She twisted the heel sharply, leaving a long gash in his skin. Blood sipped out of it and began to run down his cringing face. The red liquid dripped to the floor, forming a tiny puddle beneath his nose. He could smell the tangy, metallic odor of it. “I can’t allow you to leave without a few memories to take with you.”
“Please,” he begged.
Setting her foot down on the floor, Lady Anne slid the toe of it up against his closed lips.
“Honor me,” she said.
Peter wanted to fight back, but he didn’t know what to do against a sadistic ghost. Working in the movie industry hadn’t prepared him for something like this. So, with few other options available, he kissed the toe of her boot with as much reverence as he could muster.
“Lick it,” she commanded.
He obeyed her.
As the spirit of Lady Anne watched Jefferson run his tongue over the shiny instep of her leather boot, the expression on her face morphed into something much older and hideous in nature. The bright gleam in her eyes twinkled with cruelness. The skin and texture of her face shifted into an evil that was almost too horrible to behold. It only lasted a second, but it was there.
“You need to be punished,” she said.
“Please, no,” Peter said, looking up at her. “I just want to go up to my room and wait for the movers to arrive.”
Lady Anne pulled her leg back and kicked him solidly in the stomach with the toe of her boot. A whoosh of air shot out from his mouth, and he curled inward from the pain.
“Follow me and be quick about it,” she said.
Groaning from the excruciating ache in his abdomen, Peter rose slowly to his hands and knees. He then attempted to stand, but didn’t have the strength to lift himself up. He could only kneel there and gaze at her booted feet.
“Crawl,” Lady Anne said.
He slowly crawled up the stairs behind her. When they reached the living room of the third floor, his mouth dropped open in astonishment. The room was changing into something from the past. The couch, lounge chair and television were disappearing, only to be replaced by a sturdy whipping bench with thick wooden legs that were bolted to the floor and had a padded cushion on top. There was something in the far corner that looked like an electric chair with leather straps on the armrest and for the legs.
Lady Anne smiled at the expression on his face.
“This is the way the third floor looked when each of my husbands lived here,” she said. “They were never allowed to leave without my permission. You didn’t know that, did you, Peter? You thought you were safe up here.”
“You murdered them,” Peter stated.
“Yes, I killed them once I discovered they were planning to leave me. One of them I whipped to death, while the other was boiled in a tub of scolding water. As I said, I don’t take rejection lightly.”
“What about me?” he asked hesitantly.
“Oh, I have plans for you.”
“Like what?”
“You’ll find out, Peter,” she said. “Now, lie face down across the whipping bench.”
“No,” he said. “You are a ghost. You have no power over me.”
“Foolish, boy,” she replied, gazing steadily into his fearful eyes.
She began tying his hands together. All he knew was that his breaths were becoming more labored as his fear rose. Then, when it dawn on him that he could barely breathe at all, he grabbed at his throat in desperation and gulped for air.
“Lie across the bench or die,” she told him.
Peter did as she ordered. Then, he watched with increased panic as three French maids from the first floor entered the room and walked casually over to where he was helplessly bound. All of them had their faces made-up. They were wearing long-haired wigs, French maid outfits, nylons, and high heels to enhance their shapely legs. They casually circled him with lurid intentions, their eyes filled with a strong sense of inner cruelty.
“I want him whipped hard,” Lady Anne said, handing the quirt to the blonde-haired transvestite. “After that, feel free you use him as you desire. When you’re finished, bring him down to me.”
As Peter struggled wildly with his bonds, the blonde-haired transvestite stepped to the side, puckered his red lips with an excited gleam in his blue eyes and raised the quirt high into the air.
The nightmare got worse as Peter sucked in his breath, trying not to scream. But, he couldn’t hold it in as the quirt tore into him.
When it was over and the spirits had released him, Peter attempted to rise but his legs wouldn’t support his weight. Being half carried so he wouldn’t collapse, the transvestites took him down the stairs to the main living room. Lady Anne was waiting there in the middle of a crowd with eyes zeroed in on the Hollywood director. The spirit also had an opened straight razor in her hand.
“Is he ready?” she asked.
“Yes, Lady Anne,” one of the French maids answered.
“Good,” she said, sliding the sharp edge of the razor blade down Peter’s chest, opening the flesh like someone carving off a slice of turkey.
As Lady Anne took his arm to lead him out of the living room, he broke the grip and dashed across the room to the big bay window. He pushed aside the black curtains and crashed through the plated glass, shattering it like an explosion from a canon.
He landed hard in the dead shrubbery outside the house.
*****
The sun was just beginning to rise on the eastern horizon as he staggered to his bare feet and stepped out from between the bushes naked as a jaybird. He stared with vacant eyes at the wall surrounding the house and grounds.
Gradually, through sheer will alone, he began to limp to the stretch of asphalt pointing to the gate. A broken shard of glass was embedded in his right thigh. His backside was shredded from the whipping he’d just endured.
He didn’t even notice.
He managed to make it to the driveway and collapsed from the loss of blood. He lay there, staring with glazed-over eyes at Palomino Lane through the metal bars of the entrance gate. Everything was prepared for when the movers arrived.
Just another two hours, he thought. If I can survive another two hours, everything will be okay.
Lady Anne turned around and disappeared back into the house.
Wayne C. Rogers is the author of the short story, “A Step in the Shadows,” which was published in the paperback anthology, I'll Never Go Away. His short story, “The Pit”, appeared in the fall issue of The Horror Zine Magazine for 2014, and his short story, “I Still Live” is in The Horror Zine’s newest anthology, Shrieks and Shivers. All three stories have been turned into screenplays as has his newest story, “The Code of Honor,” which deals with 1968 Vietnam and the horrors beneath the ground that the U.S. Army tunnel rats encountered during a mission.