"fright night: frightened" (fan fiction)

7/31/2019 "FRIGHT NIGHT: Frightened" (Fan Fiction)

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“Fright Night: Frightened”

By M.L. Zambrana

Charley Brewster’s smile faded and he blinked in confusion at the tall, thin man in

front of him, and got a questioning stare back in return.

“May I help you?” the man asked in a reserved, polite manner. He blinked twice,

his brown, doe-like eyes soft and curious about Charley’s presence in the hallway.

Charley swallowed. When the door opened, he had been on the verge of calling

this individual “Peter,” because at first he thought that the person who answered the door

had been Peter Vincent, but each passing second made it clear that his initial assessment

had been wrong. This man bore a striking resemblance to the illusionist in height, weight

and skin type--a plentiful array of freckles even covered this man’s face in a similar



pattern--but the style of his conservative clothing, the neatly-styled hair, the thick-rimmed

glasses and the lilting tone of his voice, as well as the gentle aura that he gave off, made

Charlie hesitate long enough to get his wits together. And to not look like an idiot by

misidentifying someone.

“I… was looking for Peter Vincent,” Charley began. “My name’s Charley

Brewster. We met in Las Vegas and--”

“Oh!” The man smiled and his eyes lit up. “Oh, yes, YOU’RE Charley! Of

course, of course! Come in, please!” he insisted. He reached one thin hand out to clasp

Charley’s arm and pulled him inside. “My name’s Arthur,” he introduced himself. “I’m

Peter’s cousin. Oh, I am so very glad to meet you. Peter didn’t tell me you were coming

by, else I‘d have been more prepared.”

Charley gave Arthur a sheepish grin. “Well, uh, actually, he didn‘t know that I

would be here. Last-minute decision and everything.”

He paused and looked around. He‘d expected to walk into a recreation of the Hard

Rock penthouse--echoey rooms done up in black with gothic furniture, overly dramatic

lighting and display cases loaded with various religious artifacts--but the pleasant, colorful

atmosphere that greeted him, with its Mid-Century furniture and 1950s-style wall art, took

him by surprise.

“Is this his place?” he asked with some amazement.

Arthur nodded and closed the door, then guided Charley into the main room of the

condo and gestured him towards a nearby chair.

“Well, it is now. Granted, it was his money that helped me get it to begin with, but

when he moved in with me, he bought it off me.”



It seemed like Arthur’s voice held a tinge of resentment, but the man covered it up

with a quick smile. Arthur settled himself onto the vintage blue sofa and crossed his legs,

then rested his elbow on the back of the sofa and put one curled hand to his temple.

“After what happened to him in Nevada--well, what happened to both of you,

really--Peter had a bit of a rough time. Lost his show, as you know. Not that he wasn’t

going to lose it before all that… vampire business.” He forced out the words, then gave a

sad sigh. “From what Peter told me, they’d found him to be an unpleasant enough tenant

beforehand. With several murders in their building, the owners felt it was just better to

dismiss him, hire a new act and move on. They didn’t want anything more to do with

him--not that you could blame them, under the circumstances. So he came here. To stay

with me. And to start again.”

Indeed, from what Charley had learned from internet postings and newspaper

articles, Peter Vincent had just barely managed to start again. The deaths at the Hard

Rock--three security guards, along with Peter’s stage assistant and combative girlfriend,

Ginger--had made him untouchable on the Strip, and other major casinos and hotels around

the country followed the Hard Rock’s example in keeping the name “Peter Vincent” off

their payrolls. Months passed before he finally managed to secure a contract for a show at

the Belasco Theatre in Manhattan--a short run, to be sure, but at least it provided the

entertainer with somewhere to rebuild and regroup.

It had taken Charley considerable effort to convince the people at the Belasco that

he knew Peter Vincent, and even more effort to get them to pass a message to him during

intermission. Getting around security in Las Vegas had been a joke; Charley had gotten

backstage using a stolen jacket and a fake ID badge, the top of which had been cut out from



the Sun newspaper. New York employees, on the other hand, had everything locked down

tight. Charley thought that showing up at intermission would be the best way to get back in

touch with Peter, but he’d barely managed to be allowed to send a letter backstage.

Peter’s reply had been quick, brief, and scrawled on the back of a program insert. It

read: “300 Central Park West. El Dorado. Penthouse. Go there now.”

And Charley obeyed.

“So you know what happened?” he asked. “With the vampires? And you believe

him?”

Arthur nodded. “Oh, aye. He didn’t have to convince me of it, you know. After

all, we took him in after his parents were killed. And there were just too many things left

unexplained to dismiss out of hand. Never mind the state of their house. Nothing human

could have torn up the floorboards like we saw.” He let out a low whistle and gave his

head a gentle shake. “Of course, I‘ve seen that DVD that Peter put out. You know, the one

with your friend‘s videos on it-- the night vision shots. Then there was the security footage

of the guard dying at the hotel. You know the one. After he had his throat slit open by

someone who wasn‘t there?” He made a chopping motion along his throat.

Charley nodded.

“No, I’ve never doubted Peter. He can be an arse and he’s got quite the ego on him,

but he’s not got imagination enough to make things like that up. He never did.” Arthur

uttered a quick “oh!” and stood. “My manners!” he muttered in self-admonition. “Please,

Charley, can I get you anything? Food? Drink? Anything?”

“Ah…” Charley hesitated. “Well, I hate to ask, but I haven’t had dinner.”

“Say no more.” Arthur swept one hand in the air. “Come on.”



He led Charley into the kitchen, which stood in sharp contrast to the rest of the

apartment. Charley half-expected to walk into a retro, ceramic-and-glass ‘50s kitchen set-

up, but the place had been renovated to provide modern conveniences including a hanging

rack for pots and pans, stainless steel appliances and up-to-date fluorescent lighting. He

hesitated in the doorway and looked around long enough for Arthur to notice.

“Ah, yes.” He gave an impish grin and shrugged. “As much as I like the old-

school look, this is one room where I do draw the line. I spent three years at the Cookery

School in Edinburgh. I couldn’t possibly live here without an island.” Arthur patted the

elaborate built-in island with one hand. “Now. Meat, fish, vegetables… what’s your

preference?”

With noticeable pleasure, Arthur began unloading the refrigerator and Charley, with

equal enthusiasm, chose his dinner from among the items offered to him. As Arthur went

about preparing the meal, Charley gave a run-down of his own life after the horrors in Las

Vegas--how he’d been ostracized at school, and found it better to opt for a GED and

graduate a year early in order to escape the unpleasant atmosphere. As he polished off the

impromptu meal, Charley detailed his acceptance at the nearby Journeyman College where

he planned to start classes in a week, where he would train to become an electrician.

Arthur nodded his approval. “Sounds like a very good decision, given the job

market these days. Much better than spending four or five years at university, putting

yourself into debt and getting nothing out of it. Indeed, even when I was your age, I saw

culinary school as the better alternative. What would I do with, say, a sociology degree?

Cooking, on the other hand…” He paused as he stood up and cleaned up the now-empty

plates in front of Charlie. “This is a practical skill. As is being an electrician.”



“Exactly. I watched my mom’s real estate sales go down the tubes over the past

year. The market’s been bad for about five years and it just kept getting worse, and not

many other businesses in Vegas offered anything better. And I knew that I had to leave.

Go to a big city. So it was between Los Angeles or New York, and I chose New York.” He

paused. “Well, actually, the cost of the school is what chose it for me.”

“And how is your mother?” inquired a familiar English voice from behind Charley.

He turned to find Peter Vincent standing in the doorway, dressed in a newspaper

boy-style cap and brown leather jacket, his stage makeup still on his face and his

fingernails black from the polish. He had one thumb looped through the pocket of his jeans

and stood at a jaunty angle, grinning at Charley as if at any moment he planned to rush

over and bear-hug him off the stool that he sat on. But Charley’s reply prevented that from

happening.

“She’s dead,” Charley heard himself say through numb lips.

Peter’s cocky expression faded to one of shock as he came up next to Charley and

rested one hand on his shoulder.

“She, ah… the head injury,” Charley explained. He pointed one finger towards his

own head. “From Jerry. The night he chased us, she hurt her head. Well, you know. She

was in the hospital. And I guess that never really healed and… well, one day… she just…

had a stroke.” He paused and took in a heavy breath. “It was fast,” he continued in a

hollow voice. “One minute she was standing there, and then she was gone. The doctor

says she was probably dead before she even hit the ground.”

Peter put his other hand on Charley‘s shoulder and squared the young man towards

him with an expression of mild dread. His head tilted slightly to one side. “When was



this?” he whispered.

“Last week.”

Charley broke down, unable to maintain the controlled demeanor that he’d held

onto all evening. The loss--too fresh to suppress, too painful to deny--overwhelmed him

then, and Peter leaned forward and pulled his sobbing friend to his chest.

Arthur quietly finished cleaning up the kitchen and, feeling slightly embarrassed,

tried not to look at the two of them. But from time to time, he found that his gaze settled

onto the troubled features of his cousin Peter.

Even as a child, after Peter came to live in Kilmarnock, he’d not been the typical

child grieving over the loss of his parents. The police had never fully recovered the bodies

of Edward and Beattie, or that of Peter’s little sister, Jillian… oh, they’d found bits of their

bodies around the ruined house, true enough, but never more than that. Not enough for a

burial. From the moment that Arthur’s mother and father had retrieved him at the police

station, Peter expressed an open resentment towards any attempts at physical contact

designed to soothe his pain. There had been no tears--plenty of nightmares, to be sure, but

no tears. Any adult that dared to express sympathy usually ended up with a slap or a kick

to the shins. When it came to interacting with his peers, Peter never hesitated to use his

fists against anyone his own age who dared to either mock or sympathize with his loss.

Arthur himself sported several black eyes for much of those first three months, as physical

evidence of Peter’s volatile stance against the world.

Now, Arthur couldn’t help but stare in awe. Peter stood there with his head bowed,

a quiet and supportive support for Charley. He kept his arms wrapped around Charley, the

hands still--not seesawing up and down in some meaningless “there, there” gesture of



consolation. As Charley let loose all the pent-up emotions within him, Peter held onto the

young man that much tighter, his cheek against the side of Charley’s head, his eyes

squeezed shut, and his own pain silent but just as obvious as that of Charley Brewster‘s.

Arthur couldn’t help but watch in amazement. Because he couldn’t think of when

he’d ever seen Peter so… human before.

Peter Vincent’s fierce voice broke the silence with a suddenness that made Arthur

flinch, and his shoulders came up at the unexpected sound of his cousin’s voice.

“Charley’s staying here. Not just for tonight, but for as long as he needs.” Peter

paused and glared at his cousin. “You got a problem with that?”

Arthur shook his head. “No, Peter. Not at all.”

After the brief exchange, the two men lapsed back into the uncomfortable silence

that they’d been in for the past half-hour. After Peter had shuffled Charley Brewster off to

one of the spare rooms for the night, he’d returned and downed his usual glass of Midori,

whereas Arthur stuck with tea. They sat on the sofa, not looking at one another, and stared

at the television screen… even though neither of them bothered to turn it on.

Peter pushed himself to his feet and went over to the curved wood buffet with its

array of bottles, picked up a long green one, poured out some more Midori for himself,

then resumed his seat. He’d slammed down one drink right after he left Charlie, took a bit

longer with the second one, and now began to nurse the third drink, his eyes narrowed and

his breathing slow and regular.



Arthur, for his part, stayed relatively still on his end of the sofa. He knew that Peter

wanted his company, else he’d have gone off to his own room, but every instinct told him

to get as far away from his powder-keg of a cousin as soon as possible. He could feel

waves of anger coming off Peter--over what, he had no idea, but experience had taught him

(the hard way) that such a strong emotion could result in a flurry of unwarranted physical

and verbal abuse for the nearest innocent victim. So he sat there and sipped his tea, and

said nothing.

Finally, Peter spoke up.

“Arthur?”

Arthur swallowed. “Yes, Peter?”

“Look at me.”

With some reluctance, Arthur leaned forward to set his teacup down, then turned to

look at his cousin. Peter’s troubled gaze started at Arthur’s slippered feet, worked their

way up his thin legs, along his pigeon-chested torso covered in a plain gray t-shirt, to his

freckled face… and then he looked into Arthur’s eyes. Arthur suppressed the urge to flinch

and simply looked back at Peter, more than a little disturbed by the scrutiny being given

him.

Finally, Peter looked away and Arthur drew in a breath, without having realized that

he’d been holding his breath the entire time.

“I’ve made a decision. You should go home,” Peter said in a dull voice. The anger

which Arthur had perceived earlier now seemed to be blown away, replaced by an

exhausted resignation. “Back to Kilmarnock.”

Arthur forced a laugh. “Kilmarnock? And do what? Buy a little farm and raise



“I can see that,” Peter replied in a low voice. He shushed him and pulled him close

again, then held him for a bit until the shaking stopped. By the time Peter released his

embrace and stood up, Arthur had himself back under control.

“There’s trouble again,” Peter revealed. He put his hands on his slim hips and

shook his head, frowning. “Or there may be. I don’t know. All I do know is that I don’t

want to see you hurt.” He gave Arthur another long, careful stare. “You shouldn’t be

involved in any of this,” he reiterated. “I don’t want to see the fear that I’ve got in my

eyes… the fear that Charley walks around with… in you.”

Arthur drew in a long breath and forced out the words. “Vampires.”

“Yes.” He paused. “And you’re not going to like what I have to say next.”

“They’re here, in New York.”

Peter puffed out a breath. “Worse than that. They’re here, in the El Dorado.”

He watched his cousin jump up from the sofa and turn to look at the large picture

window behind him--at the beautiful skyline of the city. Slowly, the two of them walked to

the window and looked down. Arthur had begun to tremble again.

“Charley found some things online,” Peter revealed in a soft voice. “I’m quite sure

that it’s not an accident, either--them being here, in this particular building. You signed the

lease over to me ten months ago. They began to move in nine months ago. They tracked

me here, from Vegas. They want revenge.” He swallowed. “And Charley knew this, yet

he came right here. At night. Alone. With no weapons--”

Peter hummed and reached under his jacket, then pulled out a thick round piece of

wood, sharpened at one end.

“I’ve got two. You can have this one, if you’d like,” he offered.



than that. Carry-on, that‘s all you can take. Anything else will slow you down. I‘ll

arrange for anything else to be shipped over for you, so just write up a list on the plane.”

He pulled the stake out of his belt again, held it up, then plunked it down on top of the case.

“Pack this,” he ordered as he pointed at the stake. “Say that you forgot it was in their if

security catches it. If they don’t? Well, then, at least you have a weapon.”

Arthur stared at him. “Oh, you don’t think security is going to notice a foot-long

sharpened piece of wood?”

Peter shrugged. “I’ve gotten onboard with knives before. It happens. Get

packing.”

He passed behind him, yanked open a few drawers, then repeated the order, but

Arthur just stood there, staring at him.

Peter snapped his fingers in front of the man’s face. “We haven’t got much time.

Snap out of it!”

Arthur swung his hand up and batted the hand away from his face, then gave him a

firm shove. “There’s nothing to ‘snap out of,’ you idiot ,” he replied.

Peter took four quick steps back, too shocked by the hard slap to his hand to

respond. His doppelganger cousin had never, in any way, been violent before. When

Arthur’s parents had taken Peter in to their house after the murder of his parents, Peter had

been abusive more than once to those around him--an outgrowth of loss that plagued his

soul. He’d fought back against any show of sympathy towards him, and inflicted any

number of black eyes to his cousin over the years--out of anger. He hated having to live

with a physical duplicate of himself, but one who had everything that he did not--parents,

siblings, a home, good manners, and a marked lack of experience in regards to the true



“Don’t I?” His eyebrows went up, and his voice took on a mocking tone. “A little

fairy like you, up against a bloodthirsty vampire? You’d probably faint the second that

they stared at you with their dead black eyes and bared their fangs. One snarl and you‘d go

running off like a little girl.”

Arthur smiled and gave a slow, sad shake of his head. “Is that the best you can do?

‘Fairy’? ‘Little girl’? You gave me so much more grief when we were teenagers. I’m

afraid you’re gonna have to try harder if you want to offend me bad enough to get me out

of your life.”

Peter grabbed Arthur by the shoulders. “I saw… my parents… eviscerated in

England,” he said with a pained expression. “I saw Ginger lying with her throat ripped

open in Vegas. Just now, looking at you in the living room, I could see you lying dead on

that sofa with two gaping wounds along your jugular vein. Right here.”

Arthur shivered as Peter reached up and drew two thin, warm fingers along his

neck, then grasped his shoulder again.

“And I don’t want that.”

“Neither do I,” Arthur confessed. “And I don’t want to see you dead, but I also

don’t want to see you with two holes in your neck… and undead.”

Now Peter began to tremble. He’d come so very close to being transformed into

one of those nightmare creatures in Las Vegas. He remembered lying in the square of

sunlight with Charley, surrounded by newly-made vampires in the basement of Jerry’s

house, watching his flesh send up wisps of smoke where the sunlight hit it… feeling the

odd, sick process work its way into his blood… and he remembered the pain that hit as

Charley staked Jerry through the heart, a process which ripped that vampiric spirit out of



Peter’s body with an unbearable agony.

Arthur pulled his cousin into his arms and gave him a gentle kiss on the cheek, then

hung his head over Peter’s shoulder.

“How much longer do you think I’d live,” he asked, “if I leave you here to die?

You think knowing that I ran away wouldn‘t eat me alive? That my days wouldn‘t be

numbered already?”

“I don’t know,” Peter replied in a tearful voice. “I don’t know. But if you stay,

you’re as good as dead.”

Arthur’s voice took on a strange monotone. “And if I go, then one night in

Kilmarnock, I might go to answer the door and find you there. Only it won’t be you. Not

really.”

Peter’s entire body shook with the memory of that first turning, and he cried out

and clutched at Arthur as the memory came back quick and strong, intermingled with the

sight of having watched a vampire--perhaps Jerry, perhaps one of his kin--falling upon his

mother, scrabbling at her skin, to tear muscle and tendon in the desperate need to drink her

blood.

“And I know that you don’t want that, either,” Arthur whispered. “Let me stay,

Peter. Let me stay.”

“Take THAT!”

Charley Brewster flung open the door and threw the cup of holy water in his hands

at the cloaked, pale figure that stood there, then put one hand behind his back and began to



pull out the wooden stake that he‘d stuck in his belt loop…

But the vampirish figure that stood in the vestibule between the elevator and the

penthouse door didn’t scream. He didn’t claw at his face. He didn’t smoke, he didn’t bleed

and his skin didn’t peel. Instead, the twenty-something young man took a cautious step

back and shook out his black vinyl cloak, then carefully wiped one hand along his wet chin

as his dark gaze changed from disbelief to one of irritation.

“What the fuck--!?!” the man began.

“I’m so sorry,” Charley interrupted. He winced and gestured with his hands. “I

thought you were a… a vampire.”

“I am,” the guy said as he gave another shake to his costume. “Good thing I didn’t

come up here dressed like a werewolf, or you’d have shot me, huh?”

“No, uh, I… I’m sorry. Really.” He wiped at his own face and sighed. “I just

woke up and nobody else came to get the door, and I saw you standing here--”

A few curses behind Charley’s back made him turn around, and Peter Vincent

stepped towards the costumed man, then turned to stare at Charley.

“This is Frank, my neighbor,” Peter said with barely-controlled anger. “He lives

below me. He holds a rent party at the end of every month. Costumes every other month.

He‘s not a fucking vampire, Charley!”

“I-- sorry.” Charley swallowed and hunched his shoulders in shame. He glanced

behind him as Andrew came up and put a supportive hand on his arm. As Andrew led

Charley back into the penthouse, Peter shot the two of them a look, then leaned in to Frank

and muttered to him. The words “lost his mother” and “a bit unhinged” drifted to the two

of them as they made their way over to the picture window. Charley took a seat while



Andrew scurried off to the kitchen, then came back a few moments later with two cans of

soda and two glasses.

By the time Peter finished talking to Frank, came back in and closed the door,

Andrew and Charley had already made it halfway through their drinks.

“Thanks for pissing off my neighbor!” Peter snapped. “He’ll probably be cranking

the stereo up higher than usual now, just to get even for that.”

“Charley didn’t know, Peter,” Andrew spoke up, in an effort to deflect his cousin’s

anger. “He was frightened. Plus, look at him. He’s exhausted.”

Peter frowned and pressed his lips together as he looked over Charley’s pale, red-

rimmed eyes, then stomped off. Andrew shrugged.

“He’ll get over it,” he reassured Charley.

“So who’s Frank?” Charley asked in a dull tone.

“Downstairs neighbor. Actually, he owns half of the next floor. The parties,

particularly the costume parties, are big ticket events that help him make his rent. Special

VIPs left and right. We get quite the celebrity parade going through this old building,

believe it or not.”

Charley raised his eyebrows. “And quite the vampire trade, too.”

Andrew hummed and nodded. “Peter mentioned your research. Apparently, you’ve

found that they’re living here in the building? That‘s not good.”

“You should leave,” Charley said abruptly. “They want Peter and me. They

couldn’t give a damn about you, except to use you as a midnight snack.”

Andrew gave him a sad smile. “I’ve already had this conversation with Peter. I’m

staying put. Who knows? Perhaps I can be of use as a decoy for him or something.”



Charley shook his head. “It would never work. They could tell the difference easy

enough just by looking at you. They’d definitely smell the difference.”

Andrew paled a bit at the notion that his smell would somehow single him out. The

smell of what? His clothes? His sweat? His… blood?

Too much Twilight, he thought to himself, in a desperate and almost hysterical

mental effort to dismiss the images that came to his mind.

With noticeable hesitation, Charley pushed aside his half-finished drink and stood

up, then headed towards the direction that Peter had gone in. He made his way down the

hall until he came to a half-open office door, which he paused in front of and then eased

open.

Peter sat facing the large window, his back to Charley and his head in his hands.

Unlike in Las Vegas, where the Hard Rock Café penthouse had been decorated in a gothic,

vacant style with showcases and display lighting, the office reflected a more English taste.

Charley shivered as he saw the ancient and all-too-familiar angel tapestry on the wall; it

had been his cell phone photo of that which lured Peter into the business in Las Vegas.

Peter pulled his head up, then let it fall against the back of the chair as he watched

Charley enter the room.

“First it was my parents,” he began, “and then it was Las Vegas, and now they‘re

here in New York. Even in between those times, I let those bloodsuckers drain my life.

Hell, my whole career stems from what they did to me. Every obsession, every pursuit

traces back to that one night in England. The element of horror that they introduced to me

has tainted everything.” His eyes flickered over to the wall, where a series of family

photos hung in neat wood frames. “Well, almost everything,” he corrected himself. “I



have only one thing in my life that is pure. But even that isn’t… right.”

“Peter, I’m sorry.” Charley leaned against the window frame in front of him. “I

didn’t want to bring this all on you again.”

“But you didn’t. Don’t you see? It’s always been here. It always will be. There is

no vanquishing them. Too many tribes exist in too many far-flung places in the world to

ever eliminate them altogether. The absolute decimation of Jerry’s followers in Las Vegas

should’ve been the end of my troubles… but that was stupid of me to think that. Stupid of

me to hope.” He sighed. “And now you’re in danger again. And Andrew--”

Peter cut his words off with a strange hitch of his chest and stood up. His voice

hardened.

“They haven’t come up here yet,” he said with a grim expression. “Haven’t even

tried our defenses yet. That’s not like vampires, to be so cautious.” He chewed on his

thumbnail for a moment before he began to pace the room with his usual nervous energy.

“Don’t you find that odd?”

Charley shrugged. “No. I mean, they know they can’t get in without an invitation.”

He paused. “Unless they’ve already been in. Have you or Andrew--”

“No.”

The word chimed in unnatural duplication as Peter, in one corner of the office, and

Andrew, by the door, replied.

“I’ve been under strict orders never to have visitors,” Andrew remarked. “If I want

to meet with someone, I go out. If there’s been a repair that’s needed doing, I’ve done it.

We don’t have cable. Our internet is wireless. Peter has made it very clear to the building

manager--from the beginning, I might add--that no one shall enter.” He paused. “Nearly

"fright night: frightened" (fan fiction)

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