SEEDS FEAR.

THE HOT BLOOD SERIES.

EDWARD LEE.

BENTLEY LITTLE.

J. N. WILLIAMSON.

AND OTHERS.

EDITED BY JEFF GELB AND MICHAEL GARRETT.

PREFACE.

Welcome back!.

This, the latest in the Hot Blood series, represents the fifth "date" for our blooming relationship.

We're proud that the Hot Blood series has proven to be more than a mere one-night stand. We're gratified we've developed an intimate connection with you, the reader. We're happy you've made the commitment, and we hope you'll be with us till death do us part.

Or later.

This time around we're pleased to present a foreword by Brinke Stevens, world-renowned "Scream Queen," who offers her uniquely informed perspective of eroticism and horror. Within these pages you'll also find first appearances in the series by several notable authors, as well as lurid tales by those who have been with us before. All in all, it's another stimulating package of goose b.u.mps and ants-in-the-pants stories in the Hot Blood tradition.

So relax and travel with us, from somewhere south of the Twilight Zone to your own erogenous zones, through stories that would make even Masters and Johnson blush.

And finally, thanks for making this series such a success. It's been good for us, and we hope our performance has satisfied your s.e.xual appet.i.te as well.

Jeff Gelb Michael Garrett.

INTRODUCTION.

Brinke Stevens.

A strange thing happened to me during late October of 1993. For two weeks I was staying at a Hyatt Hotel near San Francisco. Every night I was top-billed as a horror movie celebrity at The Scaregrounds, a Halloween theme park. Thus, I obligingly penned my autograph and posed for countless photos. Called a "Scream Queen," I'm a popular, well-respected actress among all those horror B-movies fans. If you like to stay up late watching scary low-budget films on TV, you've probably already seen me at least a dozen times . . . often in steamy shower scenes, or murdered by a crazy driller-killer, or suddenly transformed into a bloodthirsty demoness.

At midnight the crowds wandered home at last. I traded my spike heels for sensible flats, trudged across the empty parking lot to my rental car, and drove too fast up the freeway toward "home" ... my small hotel room. First, I ripped off my long raven wig and slithered out of my familiar black "Evila" costume, then washed the makeup off my face. Now I looked nothing like the glamorous vamp who'd been worshiped by panting fan-boys. Finally I collapsed onto my beda"deeply exhausted, and feeling an inevitable letdown after six hours of intense admiration. But once the outer public mask came off, I was armed and ready for .. . my own private fix!

A dozen or so lurid fiction paperback books filled my suitcase. Ah, pulp fodder for my secret midnight vice! Among them were Hot Blood, Hotter Blood, and Hottest Blood. Really, who could resist such promising t.i.tles? Besides, I've known editor Jeff Gelb for almost twenty yearsa"and so I'd dutifully ama.s.sed all his anthologies on my dusty library shelf. It wasn't until my Halloween junket that I found enough time in my busy schedule to actually read them.

Each night I promised myself I'd just read ONE story and then fall asleep. But by 3:00 A.M. (and five or six stories later), I realized my relaxation plan was self-defeating. The stories were too s.e.xy, too exciting, too scary! The erotica bordered on p.o.r.nographic (but that's not necessarily a bad thing!), and the horror was pure and unadulterated. After two weeks of devouring those tasty Hot Blood books, I lost a lot of sleepa"but I gained a new obsession.

Often it seems standard B-movie fare involves nudity, terror, s.e.x, and gorea"after all, it is tried-and-true commercial formula. I've routinely worked with killers, corpses, blood, and guts . . . and loved every minute of it! So saying, my own films might be considered the cinematic equivalent of erotic horror literature. You may enjoy reading my own insights and perspectives on what I do for a livinga"as a modern woman who's written and starred in dozens of "erotic horror" exploitation films.

I believe that erotic horror stories, for the most part, are grown-up versions of Grimm's Fairy Tales (though the original stories are hardly for children, as you well know). They are little morality plays, revenge stories, tales of what happens when we lose control. Ora"more to the pointa"when we take advantage of something that seems too good to be true. In Teenage Exorcist (a screenplay I also wrote), I eagerly rented an opulent mansion at bargain-bas.e.m.e.nt ratesa"and soon paid the dire consequences for it, when the evil ghost of a dead occupant possessed me. And in Slave Girls from Beyond Infinity, my seductively generous host, Zed, later turned the tables on me. An unfortunate case of hospitality turning to homicide!

In a similar vein, the "revenge" factor in horror fiction is a holdover from Tales From the Crypt comics of the 1950s, wherein the wronged murdered husband returns to snuff his killer (usually an unfaithful wife, you will notice). It is a zombified "karma" sort of deal, often reflected in cinema, as well. In Haunting Fear I clawed my way out of a coffin in the bas.e.m.e.nt while my husband was climaxing with his sleazy blond mistress in our bed. Needless to say, I was slow, brutal, and quite exacting while taking my revenge on them both!

s.e.x and horror do go together. s.e.x is a one-way door that, once entered, cannot be exited. It is also an imitation of death. The French, after all, call an o.r.g.a.s.m "the little death." People don't like to talk about s.e.x any more than they like to talk about death. s.e.x is a part of that old reptilian brain. Seemingly, the rational mind turns off. . . and Something Else appears. There is a roar of a dinosaur behind every moan between satin sheets. s.e.x is mythic (and let's face facts, seldom as good as we think it's going to be), just like horror. You know, the truth shattering the fantasy like gla.s.s in an automobile accident. Like the supposedly vampish Brinke admitting to a preference for flannel sleepwear rather than silky lingerie ... as a way of telling the reader that everyone has expectations about s.e.x and eroticism, but they are predicated on images that may or may not reflect reality.

And no one ever tells the truth about s.e.x. It's too personal. It is something that unfolds between lovers. Hence, even more potential horror . . . finding out that your true love is into really odd stuff, or is not exactly what you'd expected. How many times, in erotic horror stories and films, has this theme been a subtext? Just take a look at Nightmare Sisters, in which I'm among a trio of hopelessly nerdy college girls who are ridiculed by cruel frat boys. After holding a seance one dark night, we suddenly transform into voluptuous dollsa"and then gleefully slay the same would-be suitors who once rejected us. There's a chilling episode of Dark Romances, too, wherein I play a gorgeous woman who seduces many great artists ... and later collects their very souls. A hidden agenda can be a powerfully frightening thing, indeed.

We all have concrete examples from real life, too. For example, did you ever find a partner who liked to be bitten during s.e.x? It may be something you're uncomfortable with, because it's too close to losing control of the rational mind. But you might eventually like it, anyway. That is the final aspect of the s.e.x-horror connection . . . finding out things about yourself that you really didn't want to know.

Possibly, it was a bold stroke to write a bondage scene for myself in Teenage Exorcist. But you'll also see me tied to a pillar on the video box cover of Ladies of the Lotus. In Slave Girls, I was chained to a dungeon wall in black lingerie. A year later, in Warlords, I was bound topless to a cross. The director, Fred Olen Ray, c.o.c.ked an eyebrow and queried, "What is it with you, Stevens? Do you ask for these parts?" No, it must be a mere coincidence ... yet I can only think I've come to enjoy it a little too much, perhaps. We naively think we know ourselves, and we do not. The comfort of our ident.i.ty is twisted by something that's beyond our control. The Beast is always therea"it is a wild heat that stays in the veins. And supposedly, we take off our chains along with our clothing. In my business, I apparently look for others to put them on me.

Until about 1980, s.e.x was definitely guilt-free. It was the era of Erica Jong's infamous "zipless f.u.c.k." s.e.x without fear, and often without much emotional commitment. Then AIDS reared its retroviral head. Once described as "the little death," s.e.x could now be death for real. s.e.x became even more mythic, even more linked with the symbolism of death. All we had to fear before was rejection, or the occasional scary partner (the Date from h.e.l.l is another fecund horror theme, right?). Now we had real death confronting the threat of ego-death.

So the concept of a femme fatalea"a beautiful, s.e.xually aggressive womana"becomes very important to men. And because it is (quite frankly) uncommon, it makes the mind revolve around such cautionary-tale archetypes as lamias, vampires, succubi, and so on. Writer Hazel-Dawn Dumpert said: "Murderers, vampires, ghosts can be frightening, yes. A crazy dame? Now that's scary." She also suggested that family values define woman as a nurturing force. A woman is an element of the earth itselfa"they don't call it Mother Nature for nothing. She's the link to physical and emotional survival. If a kink throws the womanly works off kilter, if they're perverted in any way, the results can be catastrophic. We all know what horrors are unleashed when bizarre circ.u.mstances transform beneficent babes into creatures of evil.

In fiction, a feminine monster is generally not brought into the world in the usual way. Instead, her origin lies in some pagan effronterya"or in the release of an ancient malevolence, now free to violate the nubile bodies of innocent coeds. Consider that disastrous seance wherein I evoked a succubus in Nightmare Sisters. And that ugly, vicious imp I accidentally freed from a bowling trophy in Sorority Babes. In Dark Romances, my own bloodthirsty immortality was the result of a vile pact with a demon.

In movies and literature, it's always a good idea to ask: Why is this gorgeous woman coming on so strong like that? If it's too good to be true, there must be a catch. In real life, I believe this is a major psychological difference between men and women: ego reinforcement. That isn't to say the majority of men will turn down s.e.x when it's offered to them, even by strange women. But don't think men aren't suspicious of the situation. Even for the most testosterone-driven men, s.e.x is scary. You are going off into the metaphorical dark with someone you don't know well, and getting as close to her as is physically possible. Vulnerable. s.e.x and death ... as in Ramsey Campbell's cleverly t.i.tled book, Scared Stiff.

That is why s.e.x is always more than simply s.e.x. It ties in with all kinds of issues. It is a big deal. Remember what Woody Allen said about s.e.x and death? "Two things that only happen once in a lifetime." We joke about it, but s.e.x is scary. These concerns about s.e.x and death, about the Beast within, are all throughout our popular culture: in songs, books, and films. In this decade of white-trash glamour, we even get it delivered to us daily by Hard Copy and Oprah inside our own living rooms.

Men's erotica is more broadly humorous, while women's erotica tends to be more philosophical and high-minded. Truism: different strokes for different folks. And it isn't just men, of course. Women have their own kinks in their psychological garden hoses, too. It reminds me a bit of the Victorian female att.i.tude about s.e.x, and why Count Dracula was so appealing both then and now. Victorian women weren't supposed to like s.e.x, or to be wanton. It was control, then as now, that was important. Stephen King described the underlying theme thusly: The vampire was saying to these chaste Victorian ladies, "I will f.u.c.k you with my mouth, and you will love it."

He is right, too. For both s.e.xes, the concept of losing control in romance is somehow very attractive. I couldn't help myself becomes a catch phrase . . . I was drunk. It is the most human of states: to want to feel good, to feel better, or to not feel at all. We learn secrecy, new definitions of the truth. And a certain sense of a.s.sault develops in whatever mirror we choose to look into . . . because we take off many thousands of years of civilization when we dive beneath the sheets.

I doubt women can appreciate how scary s.e.x is for men. Perhaps this is why erotic horror pretty much revolves around a male readership. Since much of horror has gone the rather messy splatterpunk direction, that may be a limiting factor for some women's appreciation of the genre. But I think there are a lot of females who, like myself, enjoy erotic horror immensely. What about Camille Paglia, the bogeyman of feminism, admitting to a great love of bodice ripper novels, complete with the bare-chested man bending the gasping maiden near double over a stone bench! And THIS from a committed foe of the paternalistic, woman-bashing status quo?

Guiltlessly, I'll admit my obsession for these wonderful erotic horror stories. So it's my great pleasure to welcome you to another spectacular volume of Hot Blood. Right now it is time to dim the lights, pull the covers up to your chin, and delve into these little gems of exotic terror (and if you're in bed with a significant other, be sure to check for fangs first!).

SCREAM QUEEN.

Ronald Kelly.

T he images on the screen were black and white, grainy with too many dropouts. The sound was bad, harsh and scratchy. The music was even worse, too melodramatic. The scene was set somewhere up in the California mountains: a lot of boulders, dry gra.s.s, and scrubby underbrush.

Ted Culman lay on the full-size bed, naked, his eyes glued to the nineteen-inch TV. The landscape was unremarkable, the backdrop for countless low-budget movies made in the fifties and sixties. The only distinguishing factor about the old flick appeared a moment later, rounding a boulder and walking up a dusty mountain trail.

Ted sunk into the pillows at his back, as if settling into the c.o.c.kpit of a jet fighter. He was in control now. The hand that rested on his belly crept toward his groin. Soon it was fisted around him, stroking. He was already aroused.

The woman who appeared on the screen was a real beauty. Average in height, but noticeably buxom, her b.r.e.a.s.t.s swelling behind the cloth of her checkered blouse. She was platinum blond, much in the same style of Marilyn Monroe or Jayne Mansfield. Her lovely face was partly obscured by too much lipstick, partly by a pair of white-framed sungla.s.ses, circa 1956. Ted studied the woman's lower region: flaring hips encased in skintight white slacks, long shapely legs, and tiny feet slipped inside simple sandals.

The woman on the screen made her way up the lonesome pathway, her hips swaying like a pendulum, her delicate jaw working on a gob of Wrigley's spearmint gum. Ted's hand quickened as a m.u.f.fled roar sounded from offscreen and caused the woman to whirl in her tracks. An atrocious-looking swamp monstera"all dangling latex and bulbous tennis-ball eyesa"leapt down clumsily from a neighboring boulder, its thick arms extended in menace.

That was when Ted closed his eyes, and let his imagination take over. As his hand went on autopilot, Ted imagined himself to be the shuffling creature. But there was no menace in his monstrous eyes, only desire; a desire shared by the woman he confronted. In a matter of seconds, his claws had torn past her blouse and bra, tossing tatters of cloth and elastic away until her b.r.e.a.s.t.s were exposed. The nipples stood out, pink and hard. She reached out for him, and soon they were on the sandy earth. His claws went to work again, hooking past tight cloth, rending it easily. She lay beneath him, completely nude now. They embraced hungrily, a melding of human and alien flesh. Ted felt his b.e.s.t.i.a.l member jut from his loins, searching, aching pa.s.sionately. The woman writhed hungrily against him, then he was there, surrounded by warm wetness.

Ted felt himself quickly reaching the brink. He opened his eyes. The blonde's lovely face filled the screen, just as he had antic.i.p.ated. Her sungla.s.ses had been knocked askew and one eye stared straight into the camera. Then those luscious lips parted and a shrill scream powered up from out of her throat. But in Ted's ears it was not the shriek of terror that it was intended to be. Instead, it was a cry of unbridled ecstasy.

Pleasure shot through him, exploding at the base of his spine, causing his hips to buck slightly. Then, a second later, it was all over. The scene had changed. Ted was watching a pipe-smoking scientist explaining a screenwriter's theory of evolution, while Ted's p.e.n.i.s shriveled in the palm of his hand.

Ted paused the VCR with the remote control, while his other hand shucked a Kleenex from its box and sopped up the juices of his pa.s.sion. After the strength had returned to his legs, he hopped off the motel bed and walked into the bathroom. He tossed the damp wad of tissue into the toilet, then cranked up the shower and stepped in.

As he bathed, he smiled to himself, recalling the scream of the monster's blond victim. No one could break the decibel level like Fawn Hale. Oh, many had tried, but none had managed to surpa.s.s ... at least not in Ted's opinion.

Fawn was well-known and appreciated by aficionados of horror and science-fiction cinema, particularly the cheaply made features of the fifties and sixties. Fawn was considered by the majority to have been the premier scream queen of that era, very much the way Betty Page had become a cult favorite in the realm of nostalgic pinups. There had been dozens of others, some even more beautiful and bustier than Fawn. But none had possessed the lungs she had. For sheer expression of horror and vocal power, the actress had no equal. Ted remembered the first time he had heard Fawn scream. He had attended an all-night Halloween fright fest at a run-down theater off campus. Fawn's shriek had overloaded a couple of the theater's main speakers. They had popped with a burst of ozone, incapable of accommodating the high frequency of Fawn's famous cry.

Just thinking about it made Ted h.o.r.n.y again, but he ignored the impulse and finished his shower. He had someplace to go that morning, someplace very important. It was so important, in fact, that he had driven nearly two thousand miles just to get there.

Ted toweled off, then dressed. He left his suitcase behind, but unhooked the VCR and took it with him. He didn't want to risk the chance of the maid ripping it off when she came to clean his room. He also took the cardboard jacket of the tape that was still in the video recorder. The movie was creatively t.i.tled Curse of the Swamp Monster and sported a black-and-white shot of the beast in all its low-budget glory.

He stepped outside and locked the door behind him. Ted looked around for a second. The Days Inn he had checked into the night before was off an exit on Interstate 24 in the heart of Tennessee. There was only one reason why a California grad student would waste his spring break and make a cross-country journey to the land of the Grand Ole Opry and Jack Daniel's, and that reason could be summed up in two words.

Fawn Hale.

Ted walked to his cara"a restored '69 Mustang convertiblea"and opened the trunk. He set the VCR next to a cardboard box full of videotapes. All were the kind of schlock horror flicks Ted thrived ona"the outrageously bad cla.s.sics of Edward D. Wood and Hersch.e.l.l Gordon Lewis. And two out of three of them featured Fawn Hale and her bloodcurdling scream somewhere between the t.i.tle and ending cred-its.

Before he closed the trunk, he picked up a copy of Filmfax that lay on top of the box. It was an article in the movie magazine that had been responsible for his journey south. The story chronicled the history of a dozen popular scream queens and, in the portion devoted to Fawn, had laid the key to a mystery that had bugged Ted for several years. After Hale had retired from films in 1968, she had left Hollywood and seemingly vanished off the face of the earth. But, according to the article, Fawn had returned to her hometown of c.u.mberland Springs in central Tennessee.

That single tidbit of information had been a revelation for Ted. Fawn had almost become an obsession to him, creeping into his s.e.xual fantasies lately. His dorm room was papered with posters and glossy photos of the B-movie blonde, while Ted's dreams were filled with bizarre images of Fawn being seduced by the monsters she had shared the screen with. It wasn't long before Ted began to imagine himself inside those garish suits of latex and fur, conjuring screams of pleasure from the actress, rather than ones of horror.

After reading the article, Ted simply couldn't put it out of his mind. The closer spring break grew, the more maddening the knowledge of Fawn's whereabouts seemed to be. Finally the thought of driving to Tennessee crossed his mind, lodging there like a splinter. It was during the day of his last cla.s.s that Ted had made his decision. He took seven hundred dollars out of the bank, packed up his suitcase and VCR, and hit the road. He knew it was foolish and against his better judgment, but he had still gone. Now, three days later, he was only a short distance from his destination.

Ted closed the trunk, taking the magazine with him. He climbed into the Mustang's bucket seat and sat there for a long moment. Across the main highwaya" which boasted several other motels, an Amoco station, and a McDonald'sa"was a post bearing two signs. The upper one pointed west and read MANCHESTERa"15 MILES. The one underneath pointed east and proclaimed c.u.mBERLAND SPRINGSa"7 MILES.

Well, what're you waiting for, Culman? he thought, feeling a little nervous. You came this far. Seven more miles and you'll be able to get this out of your system for good.

He took a deep breath to calm himself, then put the Mustang in gear and pulled out onto the highway.

The town of c.u.mberland Springs could scarcely be considered one at all. It consisted of only a church, a post office, and an old-timey general store with a couple of ancient gas pumps out front. A few white clapboard houses were scattered around the main buildings, but that was about the extent of the little hamlet.

Ted stopped in at the general store, which was called Roone's Mercantile, and bought himself a honey bun and a Dr. Pepper for breakfast. After he had paid for the food, he regarded the man behind the register. Oscar Roone was a lanky man of sixty with bushy eyebrows and a perpetual scowl on his weathered face. Ted debated asking the man for directions, then decided it wouldn't hurt.

"Excuse me, but could you tell me how to get to the Hale place?"

The old man glared at the overweight boy with s.h.a.ggy brown hair and gla.s.ses. "Why in Sam Hill would you wanna go way out there?" he asked.

Ted was at a loss for an answer at first. He shrugged. "I just have some business there, that's all." Nosy old b.a.s.t.a.r.d.

Roone looked like he'd bitten into a green persimmon. He opened his mouth to say something, then changed his mind. "You go on down the highway here about a half mile, till you pa.s.s the Knowles farm. You'll know the place. The barn's got 'See Rock City' painted on its roof. Well, you take the next turnoff, a dirt stretch called Glenhollow Road, and head on that way for three or four miles. The Hale place is the first house on the right."

"Thanks," said Ted. He gathered up his purchases and made his way past the tightly packed aisles of canned and dry goods, eager to be out of the shadowy store and back into the sunshine. He glanced back only once and saw the old man staring at him peculiarly. As if he wanted to ask Ted something ... or maybe tell him something.

He quickly gobbled down the honey bun and chased it with the soda. Then he started his car and headed farther southward, trying to keep Roone's directions fresh in his mind. He found the Knowles farm without any trouble and turned down the dirt road, even though there was no visible sign marking it as being Glenhollow.

Ted drove down the rural road, his hands clenching and unclenching the steering wheel. The day was beautiful, and the dense woods to either side of him were green and cool. Birds sang in abundance from overhead and the air was rich with the scent of honeysuckle, but those things failed to soothe his frazzled nerves. He felt none of the control he had felt earlier that morning, when he had m.a.s.t.u.r.b.a.t.ed to the monster movie.

It seemed like an eternity, but he finally reached the first house on the right side of Glenhollow Road. Ted parked the Mustang next to a drainage ditch, a hundred feet from the structure. It was a simple, two-story farmhouse that looked as if it hadn't been treated to a good roofing or paint job for ten or twelve years. Tall oaks surrounded the house, and the yard was knee-high with weeds. Standing at the side of the road was a single mailbox with the name HALE painted on the side, nothing more.

It was at that moment that Ted Culman wondered exactly what he was doing there. Exactly what had he had in mind when he left California? Had he come to simply tell her how much he appreciated her movies and ask for her autograph? Or was there more to it than that? Ted thought about the fantasies he had been indulging in lately, but they concerned the Fawn Hale of the past. The woman had been nearing her forties when she retired. She would be in her sixties now, drawing Social Security and soaking her teeth in a gla.s.s by her bed.

The thought made Ted feel a little nauseous. He had the sudden urge to make a U-turn in the country road, retrieve his suitcase from the motel, and head home. But he knew if he did that, he would always wonder about Fawn and the meeting he had aborted out of sheer panic. He took a deep breath and, climbing out of the car, started up the road to the Hale residence.

As he crossed the unmowed yard, he began to wonder if anyone even lived there anymore. The front porch was littered with dead leaves, and many of the house's windows were broken, most notably those of the upper floor. The steps creaked beneath his feet as he approached the front door, and beyond the storm door he could only make out darkness. From the other side of the screen drifted a scent of mustiness and decay, the odor of a house that had not been aired out in a very long time.

Nervously he raised his fist and knocked on the doorjamb.

At first he didn't think anyone was going to answer. Then a form emerged from out of the gloom. "Can I help you?" asked a feminine voice with a soft southern drawl.

Ted stared at the woman on the other side of the door, and at first, the mesh of the screen caused an unnerving illusion. For an instant it was like looking at a freeze-frame of a grainy black-and-white film. A frame of a buxom blonde, minus the sungla.s.ses and fifties clothing. The resemblance was uncanny, almost frightening.

"Fawn?" blurted Ted, even though he knew that the woman couldn't possibly be the one he had come to see. She was too young; a little older than him, maybe twenty-six or seven. And her hair wasn't platinum, but a more natural shade of strawberry blond. But the eyes were identical to Fawn's, and that mouth . . . There certainly was no mistake that it had been derived from the same voluptuous gene pool.

The girl smiled. "No, but I'm her daughter, Lori," she said. She stared at him for a moment, waiting. "Uh, can I do something for you?"

"My name's Ted Culman," he said, still stunned by how much she looked like Fawn. "I'm a big fan of your mother. I wonder if I could talk to her for a minute, if it wouldn't be too much trouble?"

The smile faltered on Lori's face and she looked a little sad. "I'm sorry, but that's impossible."

"Please," said Ted, sensing that something was wrong. "Just a couple minutes and I won't bother her again."

"You don't understand," said Lori Hale. She hesitated for a moment, her eyes full of pain. "My mother ... she's dead. She pa.s.sed away about a year ago."

Ted felt as if someone had sucker-punched him in the gut. "Oh, no," he muttered. "But. . . how?"

"Cancer," she told him.

Ted took a step back, his face pale. For a moment he felt as if he might pa.s.s out.

He heard the girl unhook the screen door and open it. "Are you all right?" she asked, concerned.

"I... I don't know," he said truthfully. Even though Fawn Hale had died in practically every movie she had been featured in, Ted had a difficult time accepting the fact that she was actually dead in real life. "Could I sit down somewhere for a minute?"

"Sure," said Lori Hale. "Come on inside."

Ted accepted her invitation and was soon sitting on a threadbare couch in a dusty parlor. The room was decorated with antique furniture, and the walls alternated between old family photographs and glossy eight-by-ten stills of Fawn in her prime, most of them showing off more of her teeth and tonsils than anything else.

When some of the color had returned to Ted's face, the young woman seemed to relax a little. "Are you sure you're okay?" she asked again.