After Midnight
Richard Laymon
INTRODUCTION
Hello.
I’m Alice.
I’ve never written a book before, but figured I might as well start by saying who I am.
Alice.
That’s not my real name. I’d have to be an idiot to tell you my real name, wouldn’t I? Identify myself, then go on to write a book that tells more than anyone should ever know about my private life and adventures and passions and crimes.
Just call me Alice.
Sounds like “alias,” doesn’t it?
I’m somebody, alias Alice.
Anyway, names are the only things I’ll lie about. I’ll make up names for all my characters, because they’re real people—or were—and I don’t want any trouble. If I start giving true names, no telling where it might lead.
Obviously, that’ll have to go for place names, too. Not just people. I don’t want to give away where stuff happened, or someone might start putting two and two-together.
Except for the names of people and places, everything else will be completely true. I promise. I mean, why bother to write my story if I’m not going to tell the truth? What would be the point?
For that matter, what is the point?
Why am I sitting down to write this book?
I’m not doing it for the money. I would do it for the money, but how can you get paid for a book without letting someone know who you really are? How do they make out the checks? I haven’t figured that out yet, but I’m working on it.
I’m not doing it for fame, either. How can I make myself famous if nobody knows who I am?
But I want to write it anyway.
My story only happened about six months ago, but I already feel it starting to slip into the past. If I don’t hurry and get it down the way it was, I’m afraid I’ll lose it.
I’ll never forget the main stuff, but little pieces are sure to fall away and others will change on me.
I want a record of how it really was. Every detail. So when I read it, later on, I’ll have a way to live it all over again.
Also, it might come in handy if they ever try to prosecute me. It’ll give the complete truth about my side of things, and might help me off the hook.
Or maybe it won’t.
I might be better off burning it.
Anyway, here we go.
1
IT STARTS
I’ve already explained, my name is Alice (but not really). I was twenty-six years old when all this took place last summer, and living in a comfortable little room over the garage of my best friend’s house.
That was Serena.
She had it all. Not only the huge old house at the edge of the woods, but a husband named Charlie and two kids—a four-year-old named Debbie who was every bit as beautiful as her mother, and a baby named Jeff.
Some people have all the luck, don’t they?
I mean Serena, not me.
What it mostly boils down to is genes. Serena was hugely, incredibly lucky in the genes department. Which is to say, she was born beautiful and smart. When you’ve got that going for you, everything else is a whizz. It was only natural for Serena to marry a handsome, wealthy fellow, move into a great house, and have a couple of terrific kids.
I didn’t make out quite so well in the genes department.
My parents were a couple of duds. Good, hard-working people, but duds. Not that I hold it against them. It wasn’t their fault; they came from duds, themselves, and couldn’t help it. Just as I can’t help who I am.
And I don’t resent who I am.
You can’t do anything about your genes, so you have to do the best you can with what you’ve got.
I did all right.
This isn’t meant to be an autobiography, so I won’t bore you with the details of my youth. This is supposed to be about what happened because of the stranger who showed up on that night last summer, so I’ll skip to there.
As already stated, I was living in the room over Serena’s garage. I paid a monthly rent. She had tried to talk me out of paying (she really had no use for the money, anyway), but I insisted. Even though I was between jobs, I had some savings. I was glad to part with it, so as not to be considered a freeloader.
Even if a person doesn’t look like a beauty queen, she can still keep her dignity.
Am I giving you the impression that I’m an ugly, pathetic cow?
Writing is harder than it looks, I guess. Especially if you want to tell something the way it really is and not mislead people.
The fact is, I’m not and never was ugly. My face doesn’t stop clocks. But then, it doesn’t stop traffic, either. People have said I have a “sweet” face, and I’ve been called “cute.” Not many people have ever used the term “beautiful” in connection with me. Those who did—like my parents—were either blinded by prejudice in my favor, lying outright to spare my feelings, or hoping to lay me.
George Gunderson used to call me “beautiful” and “gorgeous,” but you should’ve seen George. I was probably the only gal in the history of his life who didn’t run away screaming. Besides, he was just flattering me to get in my pants. Guys are that way, in case you never noticed.
Anyway, I’m not exactly beautiful or gorgeous. I just have an ordinary, fairly pleasant-looking face. My natural hair color is brown, but I tint it a nice, light shade of blond. My eyes are brown. So are my teeth.
Just kidding about the teeth.
Maybe I shouldn’t joke around like that. After all, this is supposed to be a serious book. People do tell me, though, that I’ve got an interesting sense of humor.
My two greatest attributes, if you listen to what other people say, are my sense of humor and my smile. They also say I’m a “nice” person, and that I’m “caring.” But what do they know?
Though I’m nothing special in the face department, I do have a damn good body on me. I’m large for a woman (five-foot ten), and used to be on the husky side. Hell, I was fat and dumpy. But my first year at college, I pulled myself together and got into shape. Ever since then, I’ve stayed fit. I look great in a swimsuit—and even better out of one.
But mostly, I keep my main assets well hidden. I don’t like for guys to see what I’ve got.
Back when I was dumpy, they never wanted to look at me or be seen with me. After I got into shape, though, I had to fight them off. Just about all of them were total jerks. They didn’t want to know me or have fun. All they cared about was the fact that I was “built.”
According to several charmers, I was “built like a brick shithouse.”
I don’t even know what a brick shithouse looks like.
What the hell is a brick shithouse? Why would anyone want to compare me to one? It’s not only crass, but it doesn’t even make sense.
When you come right down to it, most guys stink. By the time I was twenty-six and living above Serena’s garage, I’d pretty much given up on them.
But then came the night the stranger showed up.
It was a hot night in July. Serena and Charlie were off on a vacation with the kids, and wouldn’t be coming back for a week. In the meantime, I had the entire house to myself. They always encouraged me to stay in the real house whenever they went away. They said it made the house look “lived in,” so it wouldn’t be a target for burglars. Maybe they believed what they were saying. Personally, though, I think they were just being nice to me. They figured I would much rather spend the week in their house than in my room above the garage.